


I've Heard It One Way

by NephilimEQ



Category: Psych
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Complete, M/M, Shassie, death is implied, not iminent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-07-29 15:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 112,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7690423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NephilimEQ/pseuds/NephilimEQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn Spencer just got his appendix removed...and, at the same time, he's just found out that he has another problem. But he's not going to tell anyone. Until, one day, head detective Carlton Lassiter finds out his secret. Will this bring them closer together or ruin their friendship forever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

** **

 

**Chapter 1**

Shawn Spencer sat propped up in his hospital bed after having his burst appendix removed. He still ached, and his side throbbed when he so much as moved, so he stayed in mostly one position, doing all that he could to not aggravate the stitches. Considering he was usually in perpetual motion, it was testing his patience.

After a while he drifted, only to wake up to find his doctor standing next to his bed with an all too serious look on his face.

“Hey, doc…what’s up?”

He cracked a smile at the man, who only faintly smiled at the joke. Yeah, he’d probably heard it a million times, but this was the first chance that Shawn had ever had to use it, so he was going to take advantage of it, of course. It was about the only thing he _could_ take advantage of in his current situation.

Doctor Richards just gave him a look, and that was when Shawn knew. It wasn’t just his appendix. It was something else.

As the doctor explained what they had inadvertently found while taking out his appendix, Shawn simply listened. He was confused by what the doctor was telling him, even though he perfectly understood every word of what was being said.

He had come in for a burst appendix. And now this.

Shawn already knew the instant he heard the word that he wasn’t going to tell anyone. Not his father, not even Gus. All he would get would be looks of pity, and he _hated_ pity. Well, no, actually he didn’t, but this would be a different kind of pity. One that he didn’t like.

And besides. He’d be gone before anyone realized that there was something wrong with him. He’d skimmed Gus’s copy of Grey’s Anatomy, as well as read things about it in the past out of random curiosity, and he knew that it would have only a few symptoms that could easily be passed off as symptoms of other, more common illnesses, like the flu, and then he would simply be…gone. He wasn’t going to wax philosophical about it, and he wasn’t going to think about the consequences of not getting chemotherapy. His mother would strangle him for his decision, but it wasn’t hers to make. Or his father’s. It was his.

He already knew that he had no desire to drain his father like that. Shawn didn’t have health insurance, after all, but he did have a life insurance policy no one knew about. He would put his affairs in order and set everything up to go to his parents, Gus, and Lassi and Jules. He didn’t have anyone else in his life, anyway.

Doctor Richards stared at him for a moment, and then said, “There are treatments--”

Shawn cut him off.

“How long?”

“There are treatments,” the doctor repeated, but the psychic cut him off a second time, his tone no longer light, instead bitter and brusque.

“How. Long.”

The man clasped the clipboard in his hands and let out a frustrated sigh, obviously upset by Shawn’s dismissal, but answered him anyway, despite his patient’s obstinacy, and said, “Considering where it’s at already, I’d say about nine months. A year, at best.”

Shawn nodded.

Before the psychic could cut him off another time, Doctor Richards said, “Mr. Spencer, I highly advise against refusing treatment. With treatment you could have a much better chance at--”

“At what? Prolonging my suffering? Prolonging my family and friends’ time to see me turn into a husk of my former self as I wither away next to nothing while I undergo chemo?” He sneered. “Sorry, _doctor_ , but despite my good looks and charm, I am not a selfish person and I will not try to prolong my life at the expense of theirs. It’s going to be bad enough when I go, so I’m not going to make them think that I might have a chance when you and I both know that it’s gonna take me sooner, rather than later.”

He turned his head to the side.

“I know that my father is footing the bill for this daybed and spa, which means that you feel obligated to tell him, but if you breathe a _word_ of my condition to him, I will sue you for everything you’ve got.”

It was an empty threat, but Richards didn’t know and Shawn saw the quick, micro-expression of fear flicker across the man’s face, and he knew that he’d won. Shawn mentally smirked and then coldly dismissed the doctor, leaving him alone to stew in his thoughts.

The instant the door closed behind him, Shawn felt the first tear slide down, hot and salty, his eyes stinging as he tried to keep the rest of them from falling.

How the hell was he supposed to deal with this?

He was Shawn Spencer, psychic extraordinaire, fancy loose and foot free…or was it the other way around?

“I’ve heard it both ways,” he muttered to himself, trying to make a joke out of it when, really, there was nothing funny about it. This was going to be hell, and he knew it, but he also knew that if he accepted the treatment that it would be the worse hell.

He had no desire to see his father look at him with that clenched jaw and false bravado that silently said that everything would be alright, even though he knew it wouldn’t be. He had no desire to see his mom brought to tears at knowing her baby boy would eventually be taken from her. He didn’t want to look at Gus and see the fake smile; too much effort being put into pretending that everything was normal. He didn’t want to see Jules looking at him with those soft brown eyes of hers with sadness and regret.

Interestingly enough, he knew that Lassiter was probably the only one who would treat him the same.

He could practically hear Lassiter saying, “That sucks, Spencer,” followed by a, “Now, get the hell off my case.” It made him smile in spite of his situation. As much as he pestered the man, Carlton Lassiter was actually someone that Shawn deeply admired and respected. In a world of corrupt cops and people with negligible morals, Lassi was as stalwart and as loyal as they came.

And, though he would never say it out loud, he was one hell of a cop, and a pretty damn good detective.

He had good instincts…well, most of the time. His only failing was that he wasn’t willing to make those intuitive leaps. He held back, and Shawn knew that he could be better than he was if he simply trusted his gut more often.

Realizing that he was thinking on Lassiter more than was necessary, he focused back on his situation. He was terminally ill and was going to stay away from treatment. The decision wasn’t hard for him, and that worried him to some extent, and he couldn’t help but wonder why it was so easy for him to give up. Why it was so easy for him to simply say goodbye, then to try and fight it. What he’d told the doctor was the truth; he didn’t want to make his family suffer. But, also, he knew he had a much more selfish reason…he wanted the excuse.

Now, he could do and say whatever he wanted and not be afraid to act on his more desperate desires…of course, he did that _any_ way.

Shawn lifted a hand and quickly wiped the tear track from his face, and just in time, as his father stepped into the room.

“Hey, Shawn. Doctor Richards just said that you can take visitors.” Shawn nodded. “Good, then…how are you?”

His dad was as awkward as ever, and Shawn smiled and replied, “Oh, you know, just have a hole in my side where they took out a vital organ, but, you know, doing peachy. I’ll be back to running laps around you in no time, pops.” He shifted, trying to sit up further, and then winced. “Or, you know, walking laps around you. Whichever comes first.”

Henry grinned in spite of himself and moved closer to the bed.

“Again, your appendix is not a vital organ.”

“By the way, dad,” Shawn added as casually as possible. “Thanks for footing the bill.”

His father’s eyebrow went up, immediately suspecting.

“Shawn? What’s wrong?”

Shit. Now he had to be flippant and cover up.

“What makes you think something’s wrong? Because I just apologized?” Before his father could go off, the younger Spencer shook his head and said, “I mean, I nearly died!”

At those words, Henry’s stoic and skeptic look returned.

“You had your appendix removed. You’re fine.”

Shawn, not resisting the golden opportunity, began to ham it up, milking the scene for all it was worth. He hated having to perform in front of his dad, but he knew that being overdramatic and blatantly immature was the only way to keep his father from suspecting he was hiding something.

“No, _dad_ , my appendix _burst_ inside of me, putting all of my other organs at risk!”

“Name one.”

“My kidney, of course.”

“You have two of those, and you only need one to live.”

“Well, then, my pancre-drenal gland, for one! I only have one of those!”

“No such thing, son. It’s either your pancreas or your adrenal gland, neither of which were in any danger.”

“My diaphragm?”

Henry groaned.

“Will you give it a rest?”

“But, I lost a vital organ,” Shawn said once more, knowing it was the straw that would break the camel’s back.

His dad responded by rolling his eyes, and snarking, “I believe we had this conversation earlier. Twice. I’m not having it a third time,” and then walked out of the room after patting his son fondly on the leg, neither of them feeling entirely reassured by their conversation.

Seconds after his father had gone, Lassiter stepped into the room, looking annoyed, with a file in his hand.

“Spencer.”

“Lassi.”

Lassiter stood there a moment longer and then reluctantly dragged his feet over to Shawn’s bed and dropped the file onto the psychic’s lap, looking utterly resentful of every second that he stood there. Shawn had already deduced that the chief wanted his advice on a case and that Lassi was against it. It was obvious.

Shawn glanced at the file, which to Lassiter looked like he was aimlessly flipping through it, even though everything that appeared for an instant became permanently engrained in his memory, and he said, before Lassiter could get a word in edgewise, “Karen wants me on the case, huh? Money extortion. Fascinating.”

Lassiter glared at him and snatched the file from Shawn’s hands and snapped out, “It was _her_ idea, _not_ mine, and if I had it my way you wouldn’t be anywhere _near_ this case. First of all, you’re still in the hospital, doped up on drugs. You’re barely helpful when you’re not on drugs, so I don’t know how this could be any better. Second of all,” he added, batting Shawn’s hand away as he tried to grab the file back out of the detective’s hand, “You don’t know the case like I do. We’ve been working on it for nearly two weeks and--”

“It’s the sister-in-law.”

The detective glared at him, but Shawn knew he was right. The girl in question was Lizzie Brae; with blonde hair, blue eyes, a killer figure and at only 24-years-old, she wasn’t lacking in looks. Her husband wasn’t getting any of the family money from what Shawn could see, and in her most recent picture there was Louis Vuitton-not-a-knockoff-purse hanging from her newly-purchased-Calvin-Klein-jacket-clad arm. She worked as cocktail waitress in one Santa Barbara’s less reputable bars, Scooter’s. No _way_ she was affording that stuff on her own. It was obvious that she was using leverage that her husband was actually gay (Shawn could see the look he shared with the bodyguard in the photo), to silently use him to extort money from his brother, without any suspicion falling onto her. Resentment and payback at the same time. It was easy.

Lassiter glanced at the file, obviously still angry at him, but then something in his face cleared as he glanced at the same photo that Shawn had committed to memory after a mere second from seeing it.

“The sister-in-law, huh? She seemed nice enough, and we interviewed her twice, but she panned out. Of course, O’Hara was the one that interviewed her. I had some doubts. Something about her felt…off. If it is her, and that’s a big _if,_ then where the hell would she be hiding the cash?”

Shawn’s memory latched onto the numbers he’d seen the folder. A list of addresses for Lizzie’s husband, Scott McTaggart. 114 Kepler Rd. It was abandoned, but only two miles from Lizzie’s place of work, which was heavily frequented by the kinds of people that would do anything for a girl like her. As well as near a local gay bar. That was where the money was being held.

Shawn flung a hand up to his head and gasped, as a sudden stab of pain lanced unexpectedly through his side at the abrupt movement, finally breathing out, “Kep…Kepler! I’m getting something about a Kepler? And something about a…a…” He stifled a small scream as the pain lanced up through his ribs and quickly hissed, “It’s near a skateboard…no, not a skateboard, motorized…with wheels…”

“A scooter?” Lassi supplied.

“Yes! A scooter…”

Suddenly Lassi’s eyebrows lifted.

“Lizzie Brae works at a bar called Scooter’s, and, if I’m not mistaken,” he added, flipping to the back of the folder, “McTaggart has a house out there that he hasn’t used in years. I’ll contact the realtor and get a key and a warrant first thing in the morning.”

He turned to leave and then unexpectedly turned around and said, “Thanks for the tip. I’ll make sure that you get the check.”

“Awww, Lassi…are you going all soft on me?”

The detective clenched his jaw and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and the psychic grinned. Some things never changed. However, his humor faded all too quickly, and he was soon back at where he started before. Angry at the world for giving him his damn disease.

At least it would be quick.

No time for anyone to notice.

Or for anyone to miss him.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The symptoms started sooner than he’d expected.  It had only been two weeks since Shawn had been back, and now, as he dragged himself from the bed to his bathroom, his stomach determined to turn itself inside out, he silently wondered if he should have said yes to the doctor.

That thought quickly vanished as he heaved into the bowl the contents of last night’s dinner, which had consisted of taquitos, a stale donut, and three-week-old, slightly-dried-out cheese stick.

He sat on the cool tile floor and rested his head against the cabinet on the other side, trying to ignore the disgustingly bitter aftertaste that lingered on the back of his tongue. His dad would attest that when Shawn was sick, he was the worst patient in the world. Which was one of the reasons why, of course, he had decided to not receive treatment. Yes, it might have prolonged his life, but he knew that in spite of his best efforts, he would have only ended up putting everyone around him in even worse misery with his attitude and his complaining.

Vaguely, he thought he could hear something going on outside the door. With what little energy he had, he lifted his head slightly and soon discerned Gus’s voice and that the accompanying sound was him pounding on the door.

“Shawn! Shawn! Dammit, you are not going to make us late again to another briefing! Now, open this door before I have to--”

“Have to what?” Spencer yelled back. “You have no upper body strength and you bruise like a peach. Now, be a doll and get the car started, I’ll be out in a minute.”

“What? I am _not_ your personal chauffeur, nor do I take orders from--”

“Dammit, just do it, Gus!” he snapped back, and he almost immediately regretted it, and could practically hear the expression of shock on his friend’s face when he replied, “Sure, Shawn. I’ll be right outside.” He could see him in his mind’s eye walking away from the front door, looking like a dog that had just been unexpectedly kicked.

The psychic hit his head against the counter, mad at himself for breaking so easily. He was going to have to be a lot more careful than that if he wanted to keep everyone off the scent.

He dragged himself off the floor, threw some water on his face, brushed his teeth, and then put on some cologne to mask the smell of what had just happened. When he threw himself into the car, he tossed a smile in Gus’s direction and said, “Sorry ‘bout that, man. Hangover. Now, what’s the case the chief wants us on?”

Gus seemed to forgive him and quickly told him on their way over.

“Looks like someone killed a security guard and got away with a _very_ expensive painting from a local art gallery. The only lead they have is the owner of the gallery, but he’s not talking, and they’re hoping that we can get a psychic read on him to see what he’s hiding.”

“You mean they’re hoping _I_ can get a psychic read on him. You’re just the distraction.”

“Excuse me?! Distraction? I’ll have you know, that my deductive capabilities are--”

“Nowhere near on par with mine. Now,” he added, with a demonstrative hand motion, “If you could get us to the station in one piece, that would be appreciated.”

Shawn knew that his usual bantering skills were lacking, but after what had happened that morning he found that he had less of an urge to be flippant. They arrived and the instant Shawn stepped out of the car, he felt his legs threaten to give out from under him. He shot a look in his friend’s direction, relieved to see that Gus hadn’t noticed, and then said, “You go on ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Gus gave him a look, but then shrugged his shoulders and went into the precinct.

It took him a few moments, but he managed to regain sure footing, and walked into the station completely ready to do his song and dance routine. Literally, if he needed to. The instant he saw Jules, he raced over to her desk and threw himself on the edge of it, giving her a broad grin.

“Jules, light of my life, you are looking surprisingly radiant on this dark and gloomy day.”

“It’s seventy-five and sunny, Shawn.”

“But it’s nothing but storm clouds in my heart,” he said, dramatically grasping his chest and leaning in her direction. “Storm clouds that can only be taken away by your radiance! If you’ll have me,” he added, dropping to his knees, “I will promise to never let clouds ever cover your sunlight, my dearest, darling Juliet…”

A hand on the back of his shirt pulled him up to his feet, and a familiar, cranky voice said, “Can it, Spencer! We don’t have any time for your Shakespearean declarations of love, right now. We have a murder case to solve.”

“Shakespearean? Do you really think I have the talent? Why, Lassi, I’m touched!”

The detective glared at him and roughly shoved him away from him…and Shawn’s legs decided to give out on him a second time. He and Lassiter locked eyes, both of them looking surprised as the psychic proceeded to stumble and run shoulder first into one of the pillars, where he then slumped down onto the floor, unable to stand on his shaky, weakened legs. He deliberately avoided looking at anyone, even as Juliet rushed to his side, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his arm.

“Shawn!” She glared up at Lassiter as she helped the young man to his feet. “Geez, Carlton…what was that for?”

“I didn’t even shove him that hard!” the detective protested, gesturing with one hand, looking both annoyed and confused at the attention that his partner gave the younger man.

Just as Jules was about to attack her partner once more, Shawn put up a hand and said, “Hey, it’s alright. I know better than to egg him on.” He shot Carlton a guarded look. “It was my bad. Now, let’s go see what the chief has for us. I don’t know about you, but I think this case will be fairly easy to put to rest.”

With that, he walked away, Juliet and Gus falling in behind him. Unseen by any of them was Lassiter staring at Shawn’s retreating back, an odd look on his face. He stared longer than he probably should have, and broke out of his daze when he saw one of the cops staring at him.

“What are you looking at? Get back to work!” he barked out, and quickly caught up to the other three.

As they walked into the chief’s office, she greeted him.

“Mr. Spencer, so good of you to come in. As you know, a security guard was murdered and the owner isn’t talking, so if you would be willing, do you mind, uh, ‘reading’ him for us?”

Shawn nodded, his good spirits back as he proceeded to pivot on his heel and say, “Of course, Chief. So long as I know that my energies won’t be disrupted by any…unbelievers.” He subtly turned his head in Lassiter’s direction, who looked ready to strangle him as he protested.

“Chief, I don’t think it’s a good idea for Spencer to be alone in interrogation with a suspect. He’s not--”

“What? Fully licensed?” the chief interrupted. “Actually, I got the paperwork earlier this week. He just renewed his investigative license, and is fully cleared to be in the same room with a suspect without having any police or law enforcement present.”

Both Shawn and Gus smirked and bumped fists at hearing that, and then the psychic placed a hand on Lassiter’s shoulder and firmly said, “Don’t worry, Lassi. If he cracks, I’ll give you all of the credit. I’m certain that you’ve already softened him up for me, for which I am _very_ grateful. Gus and I can take it from here, now.”

Before the head detective could brush Shawn’s hand off his shoulder, the chief spoke up once more.

“Actually, Mr. Spencer, only _your_ investigative license was renewed. Mr. Guster will be observing with the rest of us.”

At this, Gus looked offended.

“What? But he and I are a package deal--”

“Don’t worry, Gus. I’ll still give you fifty percent of the check. You know I will,” Shawn interrupted, and at that, his friend relented and simply nodded.

“No work, all the pay? I’m alright with that.”

“I knew you would be.”

Finally, Lassiter yanked the psychic’s hand off his shoulder and glowered, saying in a low, almost threatening tone, “I’ll be watching you, Spencer. If you make _one_ wrong move, if you so much as step an inch out of line, I will be in that interrogation room faster than a bullet through a hay bale.”

Shawn grinned.

“Wow, Lassi! I’m impressed. Your threats are getting more creative. Nicely done. But, with that, I believe I have an interrogation to get to. Feel free to watch.”

He turned and sauntered down the corridor, while Lassiter glared daggers at his back and silently fumed. O’Hara threw him a look, however, and he slowly dialed it back. Fine. If Spencer was going to do an interrogation on his own, he would let him. And he would grin as he went down in a mass of bumbling flames. There was no _way_ that the psychic would get through this without messing things up.

Lassiter, along with O’Hara, the chief, and Gus, now watched Spencer from the other side of the glass, the head detective hoping to see him crumble under the pressure. Nothing would please the him more than to discredit Spencer in such a way: by his own ineptness.

He fully expected Spencer to sit down and try to buddy up to the suspect, as he did with most of them, to take them off guard and get on their good sides before blindsiding them with one of his “visions”. However, Spencer didn’t sit down. Instead, he stared at the art gallery owner, Marcus Fitz, looking all too serious, a look that Lassiter was not used to seeing on the comedic psychic’s face.

“So,” Spencer started. “Your gallery was robbed. Looks like a professional hit. Surprising, considering you’re a lesser known gallery in the city, and not a prominent figure in the art community. Of course,” he added nonchalantly, “The fact that he killed a guard is probably what took you by surprise the most. I mean, you paid him to take the painting, that much is obvious, but murder? That wasn’t part of the deal…”

At this point he was sitting on the edge of the table, right next to the suspect.

Fitz looked down, tightened his jaw, and simply said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The psychic smirked.

“How long have you owed them, Marcus? I’m guessing…about four months?” Fitz looked up from the table, shock registering in his eyes. Spencer continued. “I figure you owe them around, oh, fifty grand, at _least_.” He paused and put a finger to his forehead, but it seemed more mocking than it should have been. “And I’m seeing an exchange of money. A pay off. You drained your brother’s savings and promised them the rest afterwards…even though you didn’t have it. Problem was, before you could get more money, your brother found out what you did and tried to follow you, and so they took him hostage, as leverage so you would keep up your end of the bargain. So, you decided to rob your own gallery, cash in on the insurance, and then hand it all over to them.”

Fitz looked more than uncomfortable; he looked downright terrified, like a deer caught in headlights.

“Your next problem,” Spencer added, “Was when the guy you hired to do the deed found out that he was getting _bupkis_ from the actual robbery. So, he double crossed you and told the money sharks about your little plan to rob your own gallery. Now, he’s got the painting, which can easily be fenced on the Black Market or deep-net sites, and considering your hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy, you are worth more dead than alive, especially since they have your brother, who is the sole beneficiary of your policy. They’ve probably already put a bounty on your head. Am I close?”

At this point, the art gallery owner seemed to collapse in his chair, as though someone had pricked him like a balloon, and he looked pitifully up at the psychic.

“How’d you…I mean…” He hesitated and then started sniveling as he whispered out, “They’re gonna kill me, man…”

Lassiter was shocked. The man had just confessed. How the hell had Spencer figured all of that out? They didn’t even know that Fitz had any type of gambling problem, let alone a sibling, so how the _hell_ had Spencer known all of that?

Spencer gave the man a reassuring smile, but Lassiter could see something else in it besides reassurance. Something that reminded him of the moment when the psychic had fallen down out in the corridor. A look that he couldn’t quite explain.

“We’ll protect you and get your brother back. I promise.”

Fitz nodded, but then asked, just as Spencer was about to leave the room, “How’d you know?”

Spencer’s mouth quirked into a wry smile.

“I’m psychic.”

It was said without any dramatizing and almost sounded, to Lassiter, bitter and resentful. It took the head detective off guard, and he shook his head at the feeling, trying to rid himself of it. He was used to the younger man doing things that drew unwanted attention, and being a general pain in his ass, but this was something darker than he’d expected. And, as much as it pained him to even _think_ it, he preferred the irresponsible Spencer to this one.

Turning to O’Hara, he said, “Well, that was—”

“You,” she said, as she faced him, her arms crossed over her chest.

Lassiter gaped for a moment, and then glared at her and retaliated with, “What are you talking about? How was that in _any_ way me?”

His partner smirked and raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, c’mon. You use those tactics _all_ the time, Carlton! Serious voice, stern countenance, a slight know-it-all attitude. The reason why it worked for _him_ and not you, this time, was because he was the one holding all of the cards, instead of none,” she quipped, her hands dropping to her hips. “You should be proud of him,” she added. “He’s using _your_ methods, after all. They say that imitation is the highest form of flattery.”

He thought about it for a moment, and then just as he opened his mouth to reply, Spencer burst into the small room, his arms outstretched.

“Did you see that? He caved like a spineless jellyfish!”

The chief nodded, ignoring the fist-bumps he was exchanging with Gus, who also looked impressed.

“Good work, Mr. Spencer. I’ll go ahead and get some manpower on it. I’ll put a detail on Mr. Fitz, and send someone to scout out where his brother is being held. We find his brother, we find not only the men extorting him, but we’ll also find our killer. Now, go home.”

At this everyone in the room expected to hear a violent of outburst of, “No way you’re taking me off this case chief,” but it never came. To everyone’s surprise, Gus’s more than anyone else, the psychic nodded and said, “Yeah, good idea, chief. A civilian isn’t a good mix when it comes to kidnappings and extortion. I’d probably just screw everything up. Oh, and by the way,” he quickly added, “I couldn’t say it in front of Fitz, but his brother’s in on it.”

Lassiter looked at him, but before Spencer could say anything, he quickly deduced out loud, “The brother knew about Fitz’s gambling debt and set it up, but he didn’t know his brother would go so far as to hire someone to rob his own gallery. When it happened, I bet the brother cut a deal so that he would live, but they would still get the money.”

Spencer looked at him, an approving smile on his lips.

“Very good, Lassi. See…I knew there was a genius detective in there somewhere.”

Slightly surprised, but obviously pleased, the chief said, “Nice theory, Carlton. I’ll have someone look into his brother’s records. We might be able to get a location if he’s been in contact with Fitz’s money sharks the whole time.”

Lassiter glanced back at Spencer, still expecting him to secretly find a way to follow them and finish up the case on his own, as was his usual purview, but was taken off guard when he saw the psychic head towards the parking lot, with Gus in tow behind him, looking once more all too serious. He had the impulse to follow them, so he did, making sure to stay at a discreet distance, carefully listening in to their conversation to see what Spencer’s real plans were.

“So…how are we approaching this one?” Gus, of course.

“ _We’re_ not,” said Spencer. “I’m _serious_ about what I told the chief. When it comes to kidnappings and extortions, you don’t want a couple of amateurs coming along and throwing a wrench into the works. All that does is make more problems, put too many people in danger, and only ruins our relationship with the department.”

“Since when do you care about the department?”

“Since, oh, I don’t know, they started helping me pay off my bills? Radical, concept, I know, but this is the only job I’ve kept for more than six months. I mean, it’s been six _years_ , man! And I’ve never been happier. Why would I want to ruin that?”

“Okay, who are you and what the hell have you done to my friend?”

Carlton smirked at that and had to silently nod in agreement. There was something different about Spencer, and everyone had seemed to pick up on it, but it seemed that the head detective was the only one who _liked_ the change to some extent. For once, Spencer seemed to be thinking of people other than himself, and was acting more like an adult. It was different, but Carlton could only see it as mostly a good thing. The young man was finally taking responsibility for his actions. Took him long enough.

Lassiter turned and headed back into the precinct…and then stopped.

There was still the unidentified issue of _why_ he was acting that way. Spencer was a good enough actor to get away with anything, but there was no point in acting for Gus, which meant that he was serious about the change that he was making…but _some_ thing must have triggered it.

The only thing that had changed in the psychic’s life recently was having his appendix removed, but Lassiter didn’t see how that could have such a life-changing effect.

It had to be something else.

So, like the good detective that he was, he was going to find out.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

It had been two weeks, and Lassiter had come to a disquieting conclusion. Shawn Spencer, their resident psychic, was sick. He didn’t know how sick, but his discreet observations told him that he was attempting to hide it from everyone, including Gus and his own father.

The signs were there.

Not only was he losing his usual flair for the dramatic, but he seemed to be covering the fact that he was regularly losing his balance.

He thought about bringing it up with his partner, but decided that it would be a bad idea. O’Hara would start worrying too much, and he couldn’t take the risk of her taking her focus off of the job. Unlike him, she was less experienced when it came to balancing work and emotions. The fact that she also had some sort of residual attraction towards the younger man didn’t help matters, either.

He could handle it on his own.

Lassiter made his way to his car, coffee in his hand, trying to wrap his head around the situation. Why would Spencer be hiding the fact that he was sick? That was what he didn’t understand. Normally, even the smallest sniffle had the immature “psychic” throwing himself around, claiming that he was dying and that he needed immediate medical attention, but this was different. For some reason he was hiding it, keeping it out of the spotlight, and Carlton was determined to find out why.

* * *

Shawn was feeling the symptoms once more. As he was getting dressed that morning, the instant he pulled on his blue polo he lost his balance and fell against his dresser; even with a hand on the sturdy wood, his knees were shaking. It was lasting longer this time. Dammit. It was getting harder and harder to cover up.

Feeling a bit desperate, he yanked open the second drawer from the top and dug under his shirts to find a familiar orange bottle. He pried the top off and popped a pill in his mouth, crushing it between his back teeth, ignoring the bitter aftertaste as he swallowed it down with nothing but saliva and spit. They were left over from his motorcycle accident a few years before. He kept them around in case of emergencies…or a quick high, whichever was more important at the time.

Knowing it would still take a while to kick in, he finished getting dressed and jumped onto his bike, making his way to the precinct.

He’d been called an hour ago by the chief herself about a case, and was looking forward to getting his head back in the game. He hadn’t had a case for two weeks, and he was starting to get antsy.

He pulled up just as a familiar, blue Crown Victoria did, sliding into the parking space right beside him. Shawn locked his helmet onto his handles and headed up the stairs. However, just as he was about halfway up the steps, his legs buckled under him, and he clung desperately to the railing.

Of course, Lassiter was coming up the steps right behind him.

At seeing Shawn’s distress, Lassi said, “Really, Spencer? You’re not even in the building. You could save the theatrics for when you actually have an audience.”

“Or I’m actually in pain,” Spencer snapped back at him. _Telling the truth is always the best lie,’_ rang his father’s voice in his head. Shawn fully expected Lassi to brush him off, like he usually did when Shawn pulled the “lie with the truth” trick, but instead he was surprised at the seeing a look of genuine concern on the detective’s face.

Lassiter hesitantly reached out a hand, asking, “You okay, Spencer?”

Hating the look in Lassi’s eye, one that seemed to say that he was _actually_ worried, Spencer brushed him off.

“I’m fine.” His legs steadied and his hand unclenched, as well as his jaw. “See? God, you’re easy to fool,” he added, bounding up the steps ahead of him, trying to leave the incident behind. He was determined to erase it from his memory, as if it had never happened. Concern was bad enough. He didn’t want Lassiter to find out the truth, because he knew it would turn to a look of pity.

Well, probably not _pity_ , he mentally amended. More like an uncomfortable elephant in the room that they would never talk about.

However, the psychic’s joy was at having a case was short, as Shawn took one look at the case file and wanted to roll his eyes. God, how stupid _were_ these detectives? Just from looking at the pictures, he could tell who the murderer was. It’s like they didn’t pay any attention to people around them. What the hell was it like not remembering everything that you saw? How nice it must be for them.

Lassiter was just walking into the chief’s office when Shawn threw the case file back on her desk and glared at her.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” was all that the psychic could think to say. “This isn’t even a real case.”

Vick looked up at him in surprise, an eyebrow lifting at his actions.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Spencer. Is a murder not real enough for you?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, and I resent the fact that you felt you needed a psychic for this.”

She looked up at him, and then slowly stood up, putting her hands on the edge of her desk, a sign that Lassiter knew only meant trouble. She leaned in, looking Spencer in the eye, and, in very tightly articulated words, she asked, “Are you not helping us?”

So annoyed by the simplicity of the case that was put in front of him, Shawn snapped.

“Oh, sure, I’ll help you.” He lifted his hand to his head and pressed his fingers to his temple, all the while glaring at her, his tone bitter and almost cynical as he bit out, “It was the fiancé. All the evidence is in his storage unit. Code for the unit, you ask? 1981.”

He turned and was about to storm out, but Lassiter’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Spencer, where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Spencer shrugged the hand off of his shoulder and turned his dark glare onto the head detective, blue eyes locking with hazel. He stared a moment longer than was comfortable for either of them and then hissed out, “Home. I’ve solved your case for you, Lassi. You should be happy. All you have to do now is slap on the cuffs. That’s what you’re good at, right?”

And with that, he stalked out.

Chief Vick stared at Spencer’s retreating back and then looked at Lassiter and said, “What the hell was that about?”

Carlton shrugged, trying not to show any emotion except for indifference.

“Must’ve woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Just because he’s psychic doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have bad days.” She arched an eyebrow in his direction, and he realized that it sounded like he was defending him, so he quickly covered with, “What? The less time he’s not in my hair, the better.  I’ll get O’Hara and pick up the fiancé.”

He strode out of her office and over to his desk, and then saw, out of the corner of his eye, his partner in question trying to talk with Spencer as he was attempting to leave building. He couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

“Shawn, are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been acting really off recently. Like, I heard the way you brushed off the chief. That’s not like you!”

Spencer rolled his eyes.

“Not like me, Jules? Really. And what _is_ like me? Acting irresponsible? Flippant? So sorry I couldn’t be more of a source of amusement for you, today. The thing is, I’m sick of being a sideshow, and for once in my life I’m _doing_ something about it.”

And he stormed out.

O’Hara gaped, staring at the doors that Spencer had just barreled through, and Carlton finally overcame his discomfort and walked over to her, saying, “He’s having a bad day, O’Hara. Just let him go.” She turned and looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise at hearing his words. “Look, I might have said some things recently to set him off, so don’t take it personally,” he lied to her, trying to cover what Spencer obviously didn’t want known, and she simply nodded.

“Oh…well, that _would_ explain how he’s been acting,” she replied, giving him an accusatory look.

He shrugged it off and said, “Look, he identified our perp. Let’s just go and pick him up and deal with Spencer later.” Her look lessened slightly, but he could see the distrust in her eyes at his words, so he quickly added, “Fine, I’ll talk to Spencer. But don’t expect an apology! He’s just as much to blame.”

O’Hara paused…but then nodded a second time and said, “As much as I hate to admit it, you’re probably right. Spencer _is_ a bit much to handle. Just…be nice about it?”

He gave her a look.

“Okay, not nice,” she amended. “Cordial? Civil, at least.”

He shrugged.

“I can’t make any promises,” he replied, but at seeing her imploring look, he added, “But I can try. Just…later, okay?”

“Good enough.”

And with that, they went to the car and headed off to arrest the fiancé. An hour later, after chasing the man through his own home and into his backyard pool, they had him sitting in an interrogation room as they got a judge to sign a warrant to search the fiancé’s storage unit. Carlton glared at the man behind the glass, his clothes completely soaked through, his socks squishing in his shoes as he stalked to the chief’s office, ready to murder the man.

“Chief! Can I charge him for--”

She cut him off before he could continue.

“No, you can’t, Carlton. That’s part of the job, and you’re not getting hazard pay out of it. Now, go and change into some dry clothes. O’Hara can handle the interrogation.”

Fuming, he stalked out of her office, the effect of it lost with every smile and smirk sent in his direction as he left a wet trail of footsteps behind him. Great, just great. He was going to be the laughing stock of the department for at least a month, if not longer. He headed down to the locker room, and pulled out the only clean dry clothes that he had: an old black band t-shirt (Depeche Mode) that was a size too small for him and an older pair of black pants that he used to wear when he worked weekends with S.W.A.T.

He grabbed a towel after stripping off his wet clothes and dried off and then quickly pulled on the dry ones. If anyone made fun of him, he’d pull his gun on them.

Just as he walked back out, his shoulder holster in his hands, he ran into a warm body, and caught himself before either of them hit the floor.

“Sorry, about that,” he started to say…but then he saw who it was. “Spencer, what are you doing back here?”

The psychic shrugged and then rolled his head slightly and replied, “I felt bad for snapping at Jules earlier, so I came to apologize. I shouldn’t have taken out my frustration on her.”

Carlton nodded and said, “Damn right, you shouldn’t have.”

He pulled on his holster, not noticing the appreciative look that Spencer ran over him as he slid his gun into its’ proper place. He lifted his head when he heard Spencer let out a cat-call whistle of appreciation. He looked up, expecting to see his female partner walking by, but no one was nearby…and that was when he realized that the whistle was directed at him.

Rolling his eyes, Carlton gave one last tug on his holster and said, “Spencer, so help me, I _will_ shoot you, consequences be damned. I don’t have time for your jokes right now.”

“No joke, Lassi,” he drawled, this time openly ogling the detective in his clothes. “I mean, the fact that you’ve hid all those yummy muscles for so long is enough to get my blood going, but you’re also a fan of my favorite eighties band of all time? It’s almost too good to be true…”

Lassiter clenched his jaw, using all of his effort to not simply knock Spencer out.

“Spencer…”

The tone in his voice seemed to be enough, as the psychic backed off, putting his hands in the air, and said, “Hey, if you can’t take a compliment, that’s your problem, Lassi, but face it. You’re the hottest thing on two legs at the SBPD, and if you ever made a calendar, they’d put you on the cover, no contest.”

He rolled his eyes, even though he was inwardly pleased at the attention. Not that he’d ever let Spencer know.

The psychic started to walk away, but Lassiter grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him in, keeping his voice low as he said, “I really don’t appreciate how you spoke to O’Hara earlier.” The psychic opened his mouth to speak, but the detective cut him off. “I mean,” he added, dropping his voice to a low whisper, so no one would overhear him, “I know you’re sick, but that doesn’t give you the right to talk that way to my partner, you got it?”

Spencer’s good mood vanished in an instant, and he looked at him in shock.

“How…how the hell do you know that?”

The detective smirked.

“I’ve got eyes, Spencer. You’ve been iffy on your balance for the past couple of weeks, and don’t think I haven’t noticed how much your behavior’s changed. You’re almost acting like an adult most days, which is more than I would have ever expected of you. Tell me, what gives? Why aren’t you telling everyone and looking for sympathy and milking every precious second for attention?”

Instead of a flippant remark, Shawn glared at him, and the slight smirk that was constantly on his lips, as well as every trace of humor around his eyes, vanished in an instant.

“Fuck you, Carlton,” he snarled out.

As Spencer stalked down the hall to see O’Hara, Lassiter stared after him in shock. He had _never_ heard the man curse before, and the look in his eyes…well, that certainly meant something. Swallowing his pride, he followed after him, pulling on his shoulder holster as he went.

Something was _definitely_ wrong.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Spencer was shocked to find Lassiter standing in his office the next morning, looking tense and uncomfortable, his hands shoved into his pockets. Gus, who was right next to Spencer, grunted as he ran into him, as the fake psychic had stopped cold outside their office door, staring in through the window.

“Shawn! I’ve told you, you can’t do that whenever you feel like it just because you find it ‘amusing’ to watch me nearly spill coffee on myself. I’ve told you, coffee burns are no joke, no matter how funny you think it is!”

“That’s not it, Gus. Look.”

He pointed, and Gus shrugged.

“So? Lassiter decided to stop by. Hopefully with our most recent check, which I _still_ don’t believe you put into a “savings” account. You spent it already, didn’t you Shawn?”

The young man shook his head, distracted, wondering why Lassi was there so early. He hoped that it wasn’t about yesterday. Shawn was still mad at himself for how he’d reacted to the head detective. He should have denied it and brushed it off, the way he always did when someone confronted him with half-thought out theories, but Lassi had taken him off guard, bringing out the side of him that people rarely saw, the real him that hid under the mask of too-wide smiles and forced laughter day after day.

His bitter and cynical side.

“Uh, Shawn? Are we going in or are we just going to stay out here as lawn decorations?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I mean, I still haven’t given up on the idea of lawn gnoming as a profession, Gus. I mean, think about it! Traveling the world by parachute and landing next to pools with scantily clad women?”

“How many times do I have to tell you that the Travelocity gnome is not an actual job position? I mean, how could you even think that was safe? Only traveling by parachute? Statistically, you’re more likely to die from parachuting than you are by a car! That should tell you just how dangerous it is!”

“Oh, c’mon,” Shawn protested, purposely delaying walking into Psych headquarters. “We could make it an actual thing! It would be awesome!”

“For the last time, Shawn, I am not “gnoming” with you, no matter how hard you try and sell it. Now, would you open the damn door? I’d like to go inside already.”

The psychic shook his head and absently replied, “Right. Inside. Of course. Inside would be a good place to be. Yeah…”

He opened the door and tried to brush off the older man standing sternly in the middle of the room as he walked over the couch and threw himself across it, propping his feet up on the arm of the couch with his hands behind his head, purposely giving off an I-don’t-care attitude. He barely glanced at Lassiter, while Gus went out of his way, as usual, to be nice and polite to the man who rarely showed him any sign of noticing him.

“Detective,” said Gus as he sat down at the only desk that they had in the office. “How can we help you today?”

Lassiter pulled his hands from his pockets, crossed them over his chest, and stared the younger man down, before saying in his usual cop-voice, “Actually, I’m here to talk to Spencer. Alone.”

Gus raised an eyebrow and quickly added, “Is it about our most recent paycheck? Because I’m still not sure--”

Lassiter interrupted, looking more than a little bit peeved, leaning towards annoyed. “You got the damn check, now scram before I fire a warning shot, Guster. I’m here. To talk. To Spencer,” he pointedly articulated a second time. “Alone.”

Gus puffed out slightly, pulled back his shoulders and said, “Well, I can certainly tell when I’m not wanted,” and walked right back out of the office, taking the Blueberry, leaving Shawn to fend for himself against the head detective. Spencer deliberately avoided looking at the older man, reaching out and picking up a ball from the table, tossing it in the air, acting as if he was alone.

The third time he threw it up, Lassiter’s hand shot out and snagged it mid-air, and he glowered at Shawn.

“Why haven’t you told him?”

Shawn flippantly parried with, “Told him what?”

“Oh, don’t pull this crap, Spencer. You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about,” he spat out, towering imperiously over his prone form. “You’re sick and you’re not telling anyone, not even your best friend, which means it’s either nothing serious, or it’s _worse_ than serious. I’m guessing from how you’ve been acting, that it’s the latter. Now. When did you find out?”

The psychic sat up, his face schooled into an unreadable mask, any fight left in him gone. It was too taxing to keep on acting like there was nothing wrong, when it was obvious that Lassi knew. He caved.

“The doctor told me when I got my appendix out.”

Lassiter paled.

“You’ve known that long?”

Spencer nodded.

“Yeah. Not like it matters,” he added, standing up and walking over to the desk, absently picking up an action figure and moving its’ arms. “I mean, it’s not like it’s curable, anyways. This sort of thing…it takes people quickly, Carlton.” The second time he’d heard Spencer use his first name. “And I wasn’t going to try some half-assed treatment to feel even more miserable just to eke out a few more meager months of life. I won’t put anyone through that.”

He looked back up at him, and Lassiter just held his gaze for a moment, and then finally broke the silence with, “Is it cancer?”

The psychic shook his head. And then nodded. And then moved his head in an awkward half-circle.

“Sort of. I have malignant peripheral nerve sheath tumors, MPNST. Fancy words for little cancer cells on my nerves.” He paused, putting down the action figure. He moved to take a step, and suddenly put his hand on the edge of the desk to steady himself as one of his knees gave out, and then looked back up at the detective. “It affects my balance. At least, for now. It’ll get worse as time goes on.”

Lassiter nodded, and was about to say something, when Spencer suddenly said, “But, hey! Only the good die young, right?”

Carlton glared.

“You’re gonna joke about this? Seriously?”

Spencer laughed.

“Uh, would you rather I go all Willem Dafoe in Platoon on you, like I did earlier? ‘Cause I think we saw how well _that_ worked out. I mean, look at me, Lassi,” he added, gesturing to himself as he collapsed in the chair behind the desk. “This is what’s going to happen to me. I’m going to get _worse_. Do you know what that means?”

Lassiter hesitated, unsure of what to say, so Shawn continued.

“I’m gonna have numbness, partial paralysis, and the highlight of it all…my memory’s gonna go to shit.”

The detective snorted at that one and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Hate to break it to you, Spencer, but your memory’s never been that good in the first place. I mean, I bet you can’t even remember what you had two hours ago for breakfast, let alone what the last case was that you worked on. I’ve heard Guster correct you so many times, it’s sad.”

He smirked at Spencer…and was surprised when the psychic looked up at him and said, “Can you keep a secret?” Not sure what Spencer was getting at, he nodded. “Okay, then. Here goes. Not exactly how I planned the big reveal, but you know what they say: vie la se.”

“It’s se la vie.”

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes.

Finally, after hemming and hawing, as well as picking at his nails, he said, “You’re the only one who’s ever suspected…well…that I’m not exactly as in tune with the spirit world as everyone else thinks I am.” Lassiter snorted. Shawn continued. “Look, you’ve met my mom, right?” Lassiter nodded, his gaze narrowing in confusion at the sudden change of subject. What did his mom have to do with anything? “You know that she has perfect recall, which is one of the reasons why she doesn’t take notes in her sessions.”

The detective nodded a second time, trying to understand where the younger man was going with this…and then something turned in his brain.

However, before his thought could lock firmly into place, Spencer finished it for him.

“I have it, too. And when you’re raised with a cop for a father, you get a crash course in how to be a perfect detective. You get quizzed on how many hats are in the room before you can order your dinner at the diner,” he said, looking almost sad at the thought. “You learn how to tell in seconds if someone is lying or telling the truth, making you realize at the impressionable age of nine that everyone is lying to everyone nearly every second of every day. You get the experience of never being allowed to look at the picture of the puzzle you’re putting together in your spare time. You get timed on how quickly you can count how many guns are in a room, how many of them are loaded, and how to most efficiently shoot your way out of a bad situation if you have no other choice…”

His voice became more bitter as he continued.

“You get tested every Christmas to see if you can figure out the present before he figures out yours, or you lose stocking privileges. You get to learn how to play chess…and then get criticized every step of the way for not thinking far enough ahead and for making too many goddamn mistakes of leaving your king open to attack. You get to have every grade you make in school turned into how much a fucking failure you are for not being able to perfectly recall every page what you read the night before.”

He paused, and his voice went soft on the last few.

“You get locked in the trunk of your dad’s car for a whole afternoon while he teaches you how to escape, even though he knows perfectly well that your two biggest fears are the dark and small spaces…you get told that you’re different and special every single day of your life while feeling like your stuck in a damn prison and your own father is the prison ward. Instead of having your father tuck you into bed at night and tell you there’s no such things as monsters, he tells you that they’re real, and that you’re going to have to be the one to stop them…you get to have the childhood from hell…”

Lassiter just stared…and then something else clicked.

_“So you’re telling us that you can read guilt off of TV interviews?”_

_“Can’t you?”_

He uncrossed his arms and looked the fake psychic in the eye, more than slightly mad at himself, and said, “You tried to tell me. The first time we pulled you in, you tried to tell me this, didn’t you?”

Spencer nodded.

“I don’t think you were willing to admit that a kid like me could do your job better than you.”

Lassiter nodded in return.

“You’re right. I wasn’t. But, I have to ask…why are you telling me this? You realize that you have committed so many crimes that you would go away for life just on obstruction charges alone, not even counting what I bet is probably numerous breaking and entering charges? God, I feel like an idiot…”

Shawn shook his head and said, “Don’t. I didn’t give you any reason to trust me. You had every right to suspect me. However, the reason why I’m telling you this is for selfish reasons. I can’t have anyone finding out about my situation.” Lassiter’s eyes snapped back to Spencer’s. “My memory’s gonna start to go in a few months I’m figuring, from what I’ve read about this thing. I’m not gonna remember everything that I see. I’m going to need you to pick up the slack.”

Carlton straightened his shoulders and looked at the younger man in shock, not quite believing what he was hearing.

“Me? Spencer, I don’t have that kind of memory, I don’t have that kind of training--”

“But you _do,_ Lassi, I’ve _seen_ it. Remember the shark case? You went out on a limb because you thought you something was off, something was different…and you were _right._ During that entire case, I knew that you had it in you to be not only great, which you are, by the way, but also amazing. It’s there, Carlton…and I need it to be there later on. I hate asking this, you have no _idea_ how much I _hate_ asking this of you…but I need you to cover for me.”

Lassiter’s jaw tightened and he swallowed. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and turned away from the man that he now knew for certain was _not_ a psychic detective.

The silence pervaded for over a minute.

Finally, he turned around and broke it.

“If…if I do this, I’ll be aiding and abetting.”

Spencer looked him square in the eye.

“I’ve managed to keep this hidden for six years, Lassi-pants, I think I can manage it for a few more months. Besides, I’m dead at the end of the year, if not earlier, Lassi-fras. I’ll be taking the secret to my grave. Literally. What have you got to lose?”

He inwardly flinched at hearing Spencer talking about his imminent demise so casually, as if talking about the end of a baseball season, but he knew that he was right. It’s not like anyone would know, and if he could pick up the slack, then he could not only learn Spencer’s methods, but also become a better detective. Besides, like Spencer said: what did he have to lose? It took him a moment as he thought about all of the possible repercussions should anyone find out…but then he finally came to a decision.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

Spencer grinned, his hazel eyes brightening for the first time in weeks.

“You’re the best, Lassi! Now, I only ask one last thing,” he added, standing and stepping into Carlton’s personal space, their faces inches apart.

“What’s that, Spencer?”

Spencer smirked.

“Don’t go falling in love with me.”

Lassiter snorted and rolled his eyes, and replied, “Trust me. There’s no chance in hell of that happening.”

The fake psychic patted him on the shoulder and said, “One can never tell about these things, Lassikins. Who knows? Maybe I’m the love of your life and you never even knew it…”

Pushing him out of his space, Carlton walked to the door and tossed over his shoulder, “The chief’s got us a new case. Are you coming or not?”

Spencer grinned. He wouldn’t miss it for the world.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Later that week was the first time that Lassiter had to cover for him. They were at a crime scene, a girl had been stabbed in her apartment, and Shawn had simply taken a step forward during one of his “psychic” readings, which Lassiter now knew to be incredibly masterful deductions, and the detective could tell in an instant that something was wrong from the look the fake psychic sent in his direction. To hide whatever was happening, Lassiter stepped forward and purposely bumped into him, allowing Spencer to make it appear as though the head detective was the one who had caused him to lose his balance…but this time, Lassiter knew it wasn’t just his balance. It was something else.

Only a few seconds later, Lassiter physically hauled him out of the crime scene under the pretense of throwing him out, but as he dragged him by his collar in his typical fashion, Spencer hissed into his ear, “I can’t feel anything below my right knee, Lassi. Throw me in the back of the car and do your usual threatening thing, if you could...”

Slightly amused at hearing those words leave Spencer’s lips, but also worried that he was already having signs of paralysis, Lassiter did as the amateur detective asked.

Yanking open the back door of his Crown Victoria, he threw Spencer inside and yelled loud enough for everyone to hear, “Spencer, so help me, if you take one _step_ out of this car, I will shoot you in the kneecaps! Sit down, shut up, and let the professionals do the work!”

Just as he was about to pull away, Spencer managed to breathe into his ear, “Check the kitchen, second drawer on the right.”

Lassiter nodded and then pulled back and slammed the door violently behind him.

O’Hara glared at him as he stalked back in, her tone accusing.

“Okay, I think that was a _little_ harsh, Carlton, even for you,” she said, glaring at him as he walked past her into the kitchen.

He ignored her as he snapped on a talc-lined glove and pulled open the drawer. As he did, he saw a faint line of red on the edge, similar to blood, as if someone had put something back inside…like the murder weapon. How the hell had Spencer seen that? Carlton knew for a fact that the man has only walked by the kitchen once, and hadn’t even stepped foot inside, maybe glancing in there only once, at the most seeing it for all of three seconds. Right in front of him was the murder weapon. It had been partially cleaned off, but a hint of red at the base showed that it hadn’t been completely washed of evidence.

Lassiter stood there for a moment, staring down at the knife, his mind trying to wrap around it.

Holy shit. No wonder no one had ever caught Shawn Spencer. Even if he’d explained his techniques, no one would have believed him. The man had _perfect_ recall. Quickly, Lassiter picked it up and called out, “Looks like our murderer left something behind,” and reveled in the shocked looks from O’Hara, Buzz, and Vick.

Of course they were surprised. It was usually Spencer who found the smoking gun. Or, in this case, it was the knife in the kitchen, instead of the butler in the study with the pipe.

 _Great_ , he thought to himself, mentally rolling his eyes. _Now I’m starting to think like him_. The game board reference would normally have never crossed his mind, but it seemed that channeling the fake psychic’s dynamic energy was all too easy for him, which was slightly disconcerting.

Carlton quickly shrugged it off and dropped the knife into the evidence bag and handed it off to the nearest C.I., and then walked out of the house, pulling off his booties and his gloves as he went. He slid into the driver’s seat of his car and turned to face Spencer, one eyebrow arched as he said, “You found the murder weapon. Good job.”

Shawn shrugged.

“Just paying attention, that’s all,” he said, looking down at his hands, his right hand kneading around his knee and the top part of his lower leg.

The head detective’s eye glanced down at the movement and he asked, “Is it any better?”

Spencer nodded.

“Yeah, it’s all pins and needles right now, but it’s coming back.” He looked back up at Lassiter and then back down at his leg and then cursed out loud. “Shit, this sucks. I hate feeling like this. I hate feeling so…so…so _not_ in control of my life.” He rubbed it a third time and then wrenched his hand back and said, quoting a movie he’d mentioned in one of their previous conversations, “”Somebody once said that hell is the impossibility of reason. That’s what this place feels like. Hell.””

Carlton didn’t know what to say. So he simply stared for a moment and then replied, “”I hate it already and it’s only been a week.””

Shawn smirked.

“”Some goddamn week, Grandma.””

They shared an amused smile, and then Shawn said, “I _knew_ you were a closet fan of that movie. C’mon, detective…what’s your favorite line?” The older man hesitated, and Spencer pushed. “I _know_ you’ve got a favorite, man, I can see that look in your eyes, the look of a true fan who’s _dying_ to let it out…just tell me, please? Otherwise I’ll resort to flat out embarrassment to get it out of you.”

Lassiter blanched, thinking about what exactly Spencer might do, and quickly gave in, saying, “Okay, fine. It’s, “Excuses are like assholes, everybody’s got one.””

Spencer grinned a toothy grin.

“I knew it! It sounds just like you, too, Lassifras,” he added, his hand resuming its motions. “All attitude, treating everyone with equal dislike. Your lovely partner being the shining exception, of course.”

At that, Lassiter’s own grin faded and he said, “I don’t know about that. O’Hara’s not exactly happy with me right now. She’s pissed about how I’ve been treating you. I honestly don’t see any difference, but she insists that I’m being harsher than I have been in the past.” Lassiter shrugged. “She’s a smart detective, Shawn. She’s probably picking up on the fact that we’re both hiding something from her.”

Spencer just stared at him, making him uncomfortable.

“What?”

“You just called me by my first name.”

Lassiter quickly diverted his gaze.

“Yeah, so?”

Spencer replied, “You _never_ call me by first name! It’s like…you know, your way of keeping distance from people. I mean, you don’t even like it when Jules calls you by _your_ first name! Heck, you still call her O’Hara, and you’re the only one at the station who still calls Buzz, McNabb. What gives, Lassi?”

Just as he was about to answer, O’Hara slipped into the passenger’s seat and said, “The chief wants us to question the girlfriend, Kathryn Edmunds, who they’ve already brought in for questioning down at the station.” She turned in her seat. “Are you joining us, Shawn? Or,” she added, sending a glare in Lassiter’s direction, “Are we just dropping you off on the nearest corner?”

“Oh, ha ha, O’Hara. He’s coming with us.” She looked at him in surprise as he backed the car out of the driveway. “I’m not letting him out of my sight for a single damn second,” he added, sounding much more like himself. “You really think that I trust him to go off on his own? He’ll probably just end up lost, at best, or kidnapped, at worst, and I’m not in the mood to deal with either one of those scenarios, so he’s coming with us, end of discussion.”

His partner threw him a sarcastic smile as Spencer shot out, “Aw, Lassi…it’s almost as if you care.”

He glowered at the psychic in the rearview mirror and thought about taking the next turn slightly harder than he needed to, knowing that Shawn hadn’t pulled on his seatbelt and that it would result in him making very firm contact with the car’s windows…and then remembered. Spencer was in enough pain as it was; he didn’t need more of it. Grinding his back teeth, he merely tightened his grip on the steering wheel and got them back to the station in tense silence.

The instant they got there, normally Spencer would bound out of the back of the car, but instead he stepped out normally, cautiously, something that Juliet immediately noticed.

“Shawn, are you okay? You seem…less than exuberant lately.”

He shrugged, trying to brush it off an inconsequential.

“Not _every_ day is sunshine and roses for me, Jules,” he said, giving her a look. “Some days are clouds and cucumbers. On occasion, I have bacon and turkey days, but those are few and far between,” he suggested nonsensically. “I simply got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, along with a carton of soured milk. I believe that this has been a curdled milk and sour cheese day.”

“But you’ve been like this for the past _week_.”

“Just because it hasn’t happened to me before, that doesn’t mean that there’s no statistical merit for it to _not_ happen seven days in a row. It just hasn’t really been my week. Sorry, Jules,” he added, moving over to her side and giving her a half-hearted hug, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

She gave him a faint smile and replied, “I just worry about you, that’s all. That’s what friends do, you know. Worry. It’s in the contract.”

“Contract? What contract?” emoted Spencer, dramatically removing his arm from her and putting his hand to his chest. “There’s a contract that I signed without reading the fine print? I have no memory of this! Lassi, I didn’t sign one with you already, did I?”

Not even thinking, Lassiter responded with a sarcastic jab, saying, “It’s being drawn up, but don’t worry. It can be cancelled at any time.”

His partner looked at him in surprise, but Spencer just grinned and parried back with, “Cancelled, huh? What if I want a lifetime warranty?”

“I don’t think I have that kind of coverage,” he deadpanned, not looking back at him as he started up the steps to the station, not noticing the look of pleasant surprise on both Juliet’s and Shawn’s faces at the unexpected dry humor coming from the usually stoic and all too serious head detective.

Shawn, once more feeling like himself, bounded up the steps behind him, purposely docking him with his shoulder as he raced into the precinct. Unseen by his partner, Carlton smiled indulgently after his retreating back. True, Spencer was an absolute menace, but even Lassiter couldn’t deny that he was, on occasion, funny as hell. There had been moments in the past on previous cases where it had taken all of Lassiter’s concentration to _not_ laugh at some of Spencer’s jokes. He had the fastest, though most ridiculous, sense of humor he’d ever seen.

O’Hara caught up to him as they walked through the front doors and down to interrogation and she quickly matched his stride.

“Well, _his_ mood certainly changed fast,” she said from the side of her mouth.

Carlton shrugged.

“I don’t see any difference.”

She rolled her eyes and walked ahead of him, throwing over her shoulder as she went, “That’s because you don’t pay attention to him, Lassiter.”

The irony of the words was not lost on him. He made his way to interrogation, where Shawn was currently flirting shamelessly with their suspect, who was surprisingly attractive, trying to sneak a confession from her, and it seemed to be working. However, as Shawn leaned forward and brushed a strand of perfectly curled hair from Kathryn Edmunds’ face, the detective felt a stab of feeling that he couldn’t quite identify.

“Of course he’s hitting on her,” observed his partner, who was standing in the observation room next to him. “Best way to get her to lower her defenses. It’d probably work on me, too,” she mused out loud, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Lassiter, on the other hand, bristled at seeing the blatant affection, temporarily looking away before looking back, unsure of why it was making him so uncomfortable.

“Does he have to touch her?”

Spencer’s hand was now on top of Kathryn’s, his thumb almost caressing her wrist, and, _again_ , Lassiter felt an odd feeling in the vicinity of his gut. He quickly brushed it off, however, as the woman confessed. _Good job, Spencer_ , Carlton thought to himself as he left the observation room to go in and cuff her. As he walked inside, she sobbed as she willingly offered her hands up to the head detective.

“She was undergoing chemo,” Kathryn finally stuttered out. “She was miserable…she…she threatened to kill herself!”

Lassiter was unforgiving as he pulled her hands behind her, and bit out, “Oh, so you killed her? Yes, that makes _perfect_ sense. If you’re a murderer.”

She let out an ugly wail and gasped, “I came home to find her with the knife in her hands. She was threatening to slit her wrists, and I went to take the knife from her and she attacked me with the knife, yelling at me, saying that all I was doing was prolonging her suffering! We struggled and…I was…I was just…I didn’t mean to…it was an accident, I swear! A goddamn accident…” She hiccupped. “I loved Linda so much, and it was killing me seeing her suffer, but I never meant to…I didn’t mean to…kill her…”

She practically collapsed in Lassiter’s arms as he finished locking the cuffs around her wrists. He pushed her out the door and handed her off to an officer, ignoring the fact that Spencer was standing right behind him.

“She didn’t mean to, Carlton…”

“Doesn’t change the fact that she hid the weapon and tried to run, Spencer.”

The psychic fell silent at that, and didn’t even try to follow him as he stalked back to his desk to do the paperwork. Lassiter could feel Spencer’s eyes on him, however, and purposely ignored it. As he dug out the processing paperwork, as well as pad of paper for her to write down her confession, he noticed Juliet walk up to Shawn, putting a hand on his shoulder. She said something to him, giving him a half-hearted smile, and the psychic threw her a flirty smile in return, wrapping her up in a bear hug, lifting her off the ground, and, _again_ , Lassiter felt that strange pull around his stomach at the sight.

He ignored it.

Work. Work would help him focus.

However, just as he began to dig into it, putting things in order, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and was only slightly surprised to see that it was Spencer.

“What do you want?” he sneered.

The younger man gave him a half-smile.

“Just to tell you that you’re right: she _did_ try to run, Lassi. But, did it ever occur that she wasn’t running because of what she did, but because she knew it would have happened anyway but now it was _her_ fault?” Lassiter hesitated, unsure of how to respond. “I mean,” Shawn continued in a hushed voice, “Hypothetically speaking, how would you feel if you accidentally shot me during a hostage situation a few days from now, knowing that I don’t have that much longer anyway?”

Lassiter snorted.

“The difference is, _Spencer_ , is the fact that I’m not in love with you. I’d feel bad, but, eventually, I’d get over it.”

Shawn smirked at him.

“Not in love with me, _yet_ , Lassikins.”

The head detective rolled his eyes.

“Get out of here, Spencer, before I throw you out.”

The fake psychic grinned and walked away, practically sauntering out of the police station with too much of a bounce in his step for the somewhat serious conversation that they had just had. Lassiter stared after him for a moment…and then shook his head and pulled out the rest of the paperwork before standing up and walking down to the holding cell.

Screw Spencer and his mind games.

Their situation was _nothing_ like that.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

They continued to get cases over the next few weeks, and Shawn, for the most part, seemed to be doing fine. However, on the days that he felt off, he would slide that orange bottle from his second drawer (and possibly one or two others) and snag a pill (or two or three), grinding it between his back teeth each and every time. They were working, and even kept him more level during the day, his personality evening out nearly back to what it was before.

Gus noticed after the first week and said to him, “Looks like you’re finally getting over your “mortal experience”. Good for you, bro.”

Shawn could _hear_ the quotation marks and knew that no one was taking him seriously. Which was good, of course. It meant that no one suspected that something was wrong.

Jules also seemed to be more pleased and less worried around him, making him take a few more risks with his flirting that he hadn’t taken before in the past, getting into her personal space, and not just to see Lassi’s discomfort, but also to subtly let her know that he would always care for her in his own way, even if wasn’t the way he thought he did. It had taken Shawn a long time to come to terms with the fact that he saw her more as a friend that was a girl than a girlfriend, but once he had, he was able to finally relax around her.

And now, even though he couldn’t tell her, he took the time to silently tell her that she was important to him.

Like today, for instance.

“Jules, my jelly donut with sprinkles, what are you doing for lunch? I know this great little place that serves the best mac and cheese with beanie weenies that you’ve ever tasted! They even give you coloring books and free crayons with your meal.”

She hummed absently, ignoring where he sat on the edge of her desk, tapping his foot impatiently, and replied, “Finishing up the Blaylock case and then grabbing a bar from the vending machine. I’ve got a lot of paperwork to catch up on.”

Surprised at hearing that, Shawn said, “Paperwork? Vending machine? When did you become Lassi, Jules? Or, is it O’Lassiter, now? Julton? Carliet?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Very funny, Shawn. I just have a few things to get done today. I’ve been putting them off all week and I really shouldn’t have.” She pulled a file folder out from under his leg and added, “Besides, Carlton is free. Why don’t you go ask him?”

Shawn rolled his eyes.

“Oh, sure, because asking mister-I-don’t-need-to-take-a-break-because-I’m-a-terminator-machine-with-no-need-to-eat is a fantabulous idea! I mean, c’mon, Jules,” he whined. “Asking Lassiter to lunch is the same thing as me asking a cocker spaniel to--”

“Care to finish that sentence, Spencer?”

Lassiter. Of course. He had walked in just on the tail end of his complaint, purposely cutting him off. He was in a foul mood, and it was obvious to anyone within a twenty-foot radius of the man that he was _not_ having a good day. Spencer, of course, didn’t care and ignored the warning tone in the detective’s voice and hopped down from Jules’ desk and walked over to Lassi’s, taking up residence on the edge, one ankle flung carelessly over his knee as he poked the beast once more.

“I _could_ finish that sentence, Lassi-face, but I guess the real question is this: do you want to be compared to a cocker spaniel or a beagle?”

Lassiter raised an eyebrow.

“Doberman is more my style.”

Smiling at the fact that he’d joked back at him instead of telling him to scram and throwing him bodily off the desk, Spencer took it as a good sign. Taking a risk, he said, “Well, since the dog metaphors aren’t going to be happening any time soon, fancy a stroll down to the tavern for grog and wenches?”

Lassiter rolled his eyes and replied, “Let me guess. Translation: McTaggert’s bar and grill?” Shawn nodded, pleased that Lassiter hadn’t yet said no. Yes, he knew the psychic’s secret: _both_ of them, actually, but he wasn’t treating him like an invalid and seeing him actually considering having lunch with him was more than he could have hoped for. So, he was legitimately shocked when the detective finally said, “Sure, what the hell. They make a decent burger. Grab your coat, I’m driving.”

Not thinking about it, Shawn jumped from Lassiter’s desk. That was when his left leg gave out under him.

Lassiter slid by him just in time, standing between the psychic and his female partner, giving him a chance to stealthily reach down and yank him to his feet while loudly saying so that everyone could hear, “Dammit, Spencer, quit running into me! I’m getting sick of pulling you off the ground.”

His hand was tight around Shawn’s upper arm as he pulled him to his feet, but his eyes were understanding. He nodded at Spencer, a slight concerned look.

Shawn nodded.

Tight lipped, he shoved the psychic in front of him.

“Get in the car.”

The psychic stumbled a couple of steps ahead of him, and then walked the rest of the way out to the parking lot, sliding into passenger’s seat with more effort than seemed necessary. He could still feel the unsteadiness in his leg and he cursed for a silent second, angry with himself for not remembering his pills. He usually kept one in his pocket for an emergency, but he’d used it up a few hours before, leaving him without.

Lassiter slid in next to him and pulled out and went down the road. McTaggert’s was a local pub that had good burgers, just as Lassi had said earlier, and a fairly decent brew list. Also, Shawn had the feeling that Lassi wanted to talk to him about something. There had to be an ulterior motive to him saying yes to lunch.

The instant they walked in, Lassiter headed for a booth, surprising Shawn. He had been certain that the detective would want to sit at the bar area.

Instead, the moment Lassiter sat down he snagged a server and ordered them both a beer.

“Ok, why’d you really say yes?” pestered Shawn, absently running nervous fingers over his leg, wondering what the terse older man would be telling him off for this time. Possibly everything. He knew that Lassiter hated lying to his partner and the fact that he was lying about something so important had to be eating him up morally on the inside.

“What?”

“Oh, c’mon,” he said, tapping the table. “Like you’d ever agree to lunch with me _voluntarily_. An ulterior motive is the only reason why you would spend time alone with me. What do you want? It’s gotta be something, because if it isn’t, then that would make this a date, which, of course, it isn’t.”

“Why not?”

Shawn stilled.

“Wait…what?”

Lassiter smirked. Shawn rolled his eyes, realizing that the detective was baiting him. When their beers arrived, he took a sip and then watched in surprise as Lassiter ordered their house burger with everything on it. When the server looked in his direction, Shawn simply said, “The same,” and looked back at Lassiter with an arched eyebrow.

“Since when do you get a burger with everything on it?”

Lassiter shrugged out of his sport coat and rolled up his pristine white sleeves and replied with, “There’s a lot of things that you don’t know about me, Spencer.”

“Shawn,” he corrected him. “Considering the secrets I’m forcing you to keep, we should be on a first name basis…Carlton.” He added the last part hopefully, not sure how the older man would take it. Would he bristle and immediately go back to his usual stoic and stern demeanor, or would he be okay with it?

Carlton nodded.

“You’re right. Shawn. Just…not in front of other people, okay?”

Shawn nodded as well.

“Fair enough.”

Their burgers arrived not too much later, and they went silent as they ate. Shawn, however, kept on stealing glances in the detective’s direction, still not entirely sure what Lassiter was expecting out of having lunch with him. Was he doing it out of feeling bad for him? If that was the case, it made the fake psychic uneasy…but what about his flippant answer to Shawn’s question earlier? _That would make it a date, which, of course, it isn’t._ Lassiter’s, _Why not?_ had left him feeling completely off-balance, in an emotional way, not a physical one.

For some reason, the idea didn’t scare him. In fact, if anything, it intrigued him. Date Carlton Lassiter? Sure, it would be playing with fire, but Shawn Spencer wasn’t one for sitting idly by. In fact, he was the opposite of that, someone who enjoyed taking risks. Of course, Lassiter had been joking…

Hadn’t he?

They finished their beers and burgers and Shawn followed him out to the car, feeling his nerves get jittery as he thought of just how long it had been since he’d had his last pain pill, his fingers distractedly shoving themselves deep into his pockets. He brushed it off and mentally told himself that he would get one later, when he was home. He could make it that long. So what if his leg was hurting more than normal, he’d endured worse.

Impulsively, on a whim, trying to ignore the stabbing pains down his thigh and into his right knee, he called out to the detective just as Lassiter was thumbing his key into the door lock, saying, “Wanna do this again tomorrow?”

Lassiter looked up at him in surprise.

“You’re talking about lunch?”

“No, I’m taking about standing outside your car. Of course I’m talking about lunch! This was, well…not that bad. I mean, we didn’t talk or anything, but it was…well, nice. My treat, I swear.”

Lassiter smirked and replied, “You mean you’ll be using Guster’s credit card to pay for it?”

Shawn smirked back.

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

He didn’t respond, so they both got back in and said nothing until after they had both walked into the station. Just as Shawn was about to give up on the terse detective, his pestering down to an almost tolerable level, Carlton turned to him and said, “Lunch, tomorrow. One o’clock. Don’t be late. If you’re late, it’s not happening. Ever. Understood?”

Shawn flashed him a toothy grin and snarked, “I won’t let you down, Lassipants. I’ll be here with bells and whistles. And if I can’t find those, then probably just jeans and a shirt.”

The psychic could see the repressed grin, but he didn’t see the glance down to Spencer’s hand as he thumbed at his pocket once more, the head detective noticing the gesture of someone looking for something that wasn’t there. He flounced out of the station, passing by a surprised Juliet, and tossed over his shoulder, “Thanks for the date, Lassi!”

The junior detective shot a look in her partner’s direction, who simply rolled his eyes and went back to work.

She smiled, no longer worried about Shawn.

Lassiter seemed to be taking care of it, just like he said. Good for him.

Shawn, on the other hand, raced home, almost skidding out on his bike as he hastily pulled into the parking space in front of his apartment. He ran inside, and yanked open the second drawer of his dresser and pulled out the bottle, popping the lid off clumsily in his haste to get to his pills. He put one in, crushing it between his back teeth. He started to put the bottle back…and then pulled out one more and did the same. Two couldn’t hurt.

He put the bottle back and then headed for the bathroom, his skin suddenly feeling like it had a thin film of dirt over it. A shower would feel good.

He stripped off his shirt and went for his belt…and that was when he saw that even with a belt his pants seemed…loose. Shawn glanced in the mirror and noticed, for the first time, that he’d dropped some weight. He had been steadily gaining a healthy weight ever since he’d started working as a fake psychic, his bad eating habits balanced out by the exercise of breaking and entering, helping him put on solid weight and a bit of muscle as well, but this was different.

Shawn had an ominous feeling as he stripped his clothes and stepped into the shower, noting the slight extra weight he’d been carrying around his middle was not as thick as before. He didn’t mind having it, and in fact thought it worked for him, and so as he noticed the faint hip divot, he knew something was wrong. He was still eating the same, but less active. He should not be losing weight like this. He knew it. And he cursed under his breath.

It was only a matter of time before everyone else noticed, so he would have to come up with an alibi.

Exercise. Cardio. There. Alibi made.

He finished his shower quickly and as he stepped into a pair of jeans that had only been on his floor for two days, therefore clean, he wondered whether or not he should call the head detective. But then he decided against it. He’d be fine.

Shawn glanced in the mirror one last time.

He’d be fine.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Carlton had had lunch with Shawn six days over the past week and a half, and they had even had a couple of non-violent conversations between them in the process. That was rather amazing all on its own. And instead of seeing any deterioration, Shawn seemed to be doing better. And that, all by itself, was worrying the head detective more than he cared to admit. Spencer should not be feeling _better_. Which meant that he was now hiding something else.

Determined to get to the root of the problem, Lassiter made a silent vow to himself to remember more of what he saw…starting with the “psychic.” O’Hara, of course, immediately picked up on the fact that he was acting different around Spencer and called him out on it almost immediately.

“Geez, Carlton…what’d you do? Wake up on the wrong side of the bed today or what?”

“No,” Lassiter growled out. “He’s just getting on my nerves more than usual.”

Of course, that was far from the truth. His partner gave him a sideways look as she snapped the cuffs onto the man who had been running down an alley and misjudged the distance in trying to jump over a chain link fence. Lassiter shrugged and yanked the perp to his feet once Juliet had locked the handcuffs, venting his frustration on the criminal that was currently making his mood even worse.

As soon as they got the suspect into booking back at the station, the Chief informed them of a new case, and the detective felt his frustration rise even higher.

The bastard (Shawn) seemed content on hiding more secrets from him, and Carlton wasn’t sure how much longer he could take it. He knew that the only way to find out was either to ask him directly (which he knew would not get him any clear answers), or to spy on him. However, the instant he thought of it, he knew it would be useless. Shawn would know in a heartbeat if he was being followed, so there was no point in trying to spy on him. The best way to find out what was going on was to give the fake psychic a case and see how he was doing. So, he was pulling him onto the case that the Chief had just laid on his desk.

Spencer’s apartment was on the way to the crime scene, so he would simply pick him up and take him there, and then silently observe the younger man’s reactions. Whatever else he was hiding, Carlton was certain to find out.

He left the precinct with the file tucked under his arm, and his mind focused on one thing. Find out what Shawn Spencer was lying about. He was too goddamn good at it.

The head detective made sure to park several blocks down from Spencer’s “residence”, as he didn’t want to draw too much attention to his Crown Victoria. Shawn wasn’t exactly in the best area of town, and he wasn’t going to take any chances with his car being recognized as a police vehicle.

Glancing around to make sure no one saw him, he darted across the parking lot and to the front door of the laundromat where the fake psychic lived.

He went to knock…but then decided to try the handle first. It was unlocked. _Dammit, Shawn_ , he thought as he let himself in. _This is how bad things happen._ He walked in expecting to see a nightmare of a mess…and was slightly shocked to see everything in perfect order. Now _that_ couldn’t be normal.

“Shawn? I’ve got us a case,” he called out, wondering where he was.

“That sounds peachy, Lassi,” a sing-song voice replied from the back of the converted laundromat. Carlton followed the voice, as Shawn seemed to be singing and muttering under his breath, and found the young man sprawled out on his bed.

His head turned in Lassiter’s direction, and he smiled at him, stretching his arms over his head, his fingertips brushing his pillows almost lazily.

“Lassi! What…what are you doing here…?”

Carlton motioned with the file folder in his hand and said, “I’ve got us a case. Chief wants us there immediately. I dropped by to pick you up…”

His voice faded as he took in Spencer’s appearance. His blue button-up shirt was ruffled and hopelessly wrinkled. The top few buttons were undone and his jeans were slung low on his hips, which seemed too narrow than they should have been, but Carlton was distracted by the trail of golden brown hair that dipped underneath the edge. He felt himself flush and was unsure why, so he wrenched his eyes away and looked back up at Shawn’s face…and saw that the amateur detective’s eyes were dilated.

And that was when it hit him.

The tone of voice, the body language…

He was high.

Immediately, he looked around the room, and his eyes caught on a familiar shade of orange on top of the dresser. He walked over and read the label and cursed under his breath. Shit. How many had he taken? He couldn’t take Shawn like this to a crime scene, and it was obvious that this was what he’d been trying to hide from him.

Pocketing the pills, he put down the file folder and walked over to the bed, where Shawn was now singing the alphabet song to himself backwards. How he could still be coherent enough to do that, Lassiter wasn’t sure, but he knew one thing. He had to get Shawn presentable. He leaned over and proceeded to undo the buttons on the shirt, at which Shawn said, “Why, Lassilicious…are you taking advantage of me?” and Carlton felt his face go red as he replied, “No, I’m trying to make sure you don’t get anything wet.”

“Wet?”

Moments after he’d stripped the shirt off Shawn, as well as his jeans, leaving him in nothing but his boxers (which were green and covered in pineapple print), he dragged him back towards the bathroom and shoved him into the tub. He then turned on the showerhead.

Gasping and spluttering, Shawn tried to escape, but Lassiter held him down, getting his suit jacket partially wet. He didn’t care. He needed Shawn alert.

“God…dammit…Carlton!” he spat out, and that was when the detective knew that he was getting more aware of the situation. He’d called him Carlton. “It’s too…fucking…cold!”

Smirking, he reached up and turned it off, helping Shawn stand back up. The younger man, now drenched from head to foot, including his boxers, glared at him, his eyes no longer fully dilated, but now blazing in anger at the older man’s actions. He stepped out and, before Lassiter could react, wrapped his arms around him and said, “If you’re gonna ruin my high, I’m gonna ruin your suit. There,” Shawn added, pulling away, finishing off what the shower had started, now completely ruing his suit coat. “Now we’re even.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes at the immature actions, and simply yanked off his jacket and pointed towards the psychic’s room.

“Get dressed. You’re going to the crime scene.”

Shawn proceeded to stick his tongue out at him and then pull on a pair of black jeans and gray t-shirt that was about a size too small for him. Carlton brushed past him and picked up the file from where he’d dropped it on top of the dresser just as Shawn said, “You know I’m still high, right?”

The detective clenched his jaw.

“Yes, I know. But, I also know that you can fake not being high long enough to solve this damn case, Spencer.”

He turned and was taken by surprise to find the younger man standing right behind him, his eyes just below his own eye level. Lassiter moved to take a step back, but Spencer took a step forward, staying uncomfortably close, his breath brushing against the man’s neck.

“It’s _Shawn,_ Carlton,” he hissed out. “And just because you know all my little secrets now, don’t assume that you know anything about me.” He looked Carlton in the eye, hazel meeting blue, and, again, the older man felt a spark further down then he cared to admit as they held each other’s gaze.

Spencer broke the connection, turning away and saying, “Let me just find my shoes and jacket and I’ll meet you there.”

Lassiter was about to nod…but then he realized what Shawn was saying. He was planning on riding his motorcycle there. While he was still _high._ Was he an idiot? Was he trying to get under Lassiter’s skin? Feeling violence just underneath the surface of his skin, he reigned it in and replied with a firm, “No. You’re not. You’re riding with me, _Shawn._ ”

“Nah. Not happening.”

Unable to control it, Lassiter’s hand snapped out and grabbed the psychic’s upper arm in a fierce grip, pulling him towards him.

“Get your damn shoes on and follow me to the fucking car. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a spark of something in Spencer’s eyes at his words, and he let out a small gasp, a sound that was quickly filed in the back of Carlton’s mind, and he nodded.

“Yeah, Lassi…loud and clear.”

They were silent after that, as the fake psychic grabbed his shoes and his wallet, forgoing his coat, and then the two of them walked out to the car parked two blocks away. As Shawn slid into the passenger’s seat, Carlton couldn’t help but notice how he tugged on his jeans as they slid down slightly when he sat down.

“Are you not eating, Shawn?”

Shawn shrugged.

“Oh, I’m still eating. I’m just, you know…having problems keeping it down.” He looked out the window as he said this, staring at the palm trees as Lassiter pulled away from the curb. Carlton bit his lip, wondering if he should say anything else, but the pressure of the bottle of pills in his left pocket as it pressed against the driver’s door made his decision for him.

“Why are you using pills?”

Shawn snorted.

“Why do you think, Carlton?” The detective nearly snapped at him, but Shawn cut him off, saying, “There’s only so much pain a person can take. My threshold is pretty high, actually, but if I’m gonna be stuck with the miserable disease for a few more months, then I won’t be spending it in _any_ pain, as far as I’m concerned.” He looked back at Carlton. “You have something to say about it?”

His jaw clenched and he swallowed as he thought of all the things that he’d like to yell at him, but he finally gathered his thoughts and simply said one thing.

“I’m worried about you.”

He could tell that Spencer wanted to say something flippant, but instead he just floundered for a moment or two, looking taken aback by the head detective’s words, only half-spoken words coming out of his mouth as he tried to formulate a response.

“Okay, first of all,” he finally managed in a coherent manner, “I don’t _need_ anyone to worry about me, let alone want anyone to. Second of all…why do you care so much? I’ve only ever been a pain in your ass and now you’re going out of your way to help me? Hell, even cover up for me? I’m still shocked each and every day I wake up to find that you haven’t squealed on me to Vick! To find out that I’m not in handcuffs for going outside the law to deliver your sweet lady justice to the criminal populace! So…why the hell do you care?”

Lassiter said nothing, staying silent for the rest of the ten-minute drive to the crime scene.

As soon as he put the car in park, he turned in his seat.

“First of all,” he started, echoing Spencer’s words, “You _do_ need someone to worry about you because it’s obvious that you’re not doing any of the worrying yourself. You’re laying yourself in front of this disease like some sort of sacrifice for it, not even trying to fight back! Second of all…”

He paused trying to figure out how to say it that it wouldn’t sound strange…but then said screw it.

“Second of all, I care because you’re my friend.”

Shawn gave him a grin.

“Aw, Lassi…are you going all soft on me? I mean, it’s sweet and all, but the lunch dates and the worrying…you know there are other ways to get my attention, right?”

It took all of Lassiter’s effort to not simply take a swing at him. Instead, he did something that seemed to be the only way to shut the younger man up.

He leaned across and kissed him.

The instant their lips met, it was almost violent, bruising, even, and Carlton didn’t know what possessed him, but he bit down on Spencer’s lower lip and a sound came from Shawn’s throat, and he had the urge to do it a second time just so he could hear that sound…so he did. Another groan, and this time Shawn leaned in to the kiss, his mouth firm and warm and tasting way too good.

His tongue slipped between the psychic’s teeth and, holy fuck, he could feel a part of him start to rise in interest as the younger man reciprocated.

Carlton groaned…and then suddenly realized what he was doing.

He abruptly pulled back, wiping away the spit from his mouth, while Shawn sat in front of him looking like he’d been doing some other unholy act, his lips red and his eyes half-closed. Shawn reached a hand towards his jeans and shifted, letting Carlton know that he wasn’t the only one who’d been affected.

Trying to salvage the situation, he said, “I knew there was a way to get you to shut up, Spencer.”

Shawn’s eyes opened all the way and he smirked as he watched Carlton make himself presentable.

“You can shut me up any time you want, Lassi.” He brought his thumb up and wiped at the corner of his mouth, and then casually added, “You know, I think I can live with you worrying about me. The benefits are certainly out-weighing the negatives, right now…”

Carlton felt himself turning red, so he quickly got out of the car.

“Shut up, Spencer. Get out of the car.”

“Whatever you say, Lassi-lips.”

Great. A new nickname.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Later that same day, Shawn paced in the Psych office, trying to figure out why Lassiter had kissed him. Mind you, he wasn’t complaining, oh no. Though it had been brief, it had been _very_ memorable. He absently rubbed his lips, remembering the feel of the detective’s mouth. Who knew that Lassi could kiss like that? He sure didn’t.

Anyway, that didn’t matter. What mattered was figuring out what the older man meant by it. Had it simply been a way to shut him up…or had there been actual feelings involved?

The fact that he was dying made it ever more confusing. If it _had_ involved emotions, then it most likely involved either pity or…no, not possible. There was no actual way that Carlton Lassiter, Head Detective for the Santa Barbara Police Department was in love with him. If he was, his timing was the worst in the world.

Shawn had gotten over his crush on the detective a long time ago, after all…

Well, that had been _before_ Lassi had kissed him. And now it seemed feelings that he’d been certain were long since dead, had apparently only been dormant.

Either way, the situation was a mess.

* * *

 

Gus walked in less than a minute later looking frazzled and distracted as he slumped down behind his desk.

“Today was hell,” he grimly stated as he proceeded to kick off his shoes and lean back in his ergonomically designed chair. “First off, Doctor Schwartz insisted that I go through every single one of the side-effects on all of his damn sample pills. All _fifty_ of them.” He cut himself off suddenly and sat back up and glared at Shawn as he said, “Did you mess with the settings on my chair again, Shawn? How many times do I have to tell you that the Ergo-Force T1 24/7 is not a toy? Just because it has levers, that doesn’t mean you can push them all will-nilly whenever you damn well please!”

He proceeded to violently press down on the levers in an attempt to put them back to his custom settings…and then noticed that Shawn hadn’t cracked a single smile. Strange. Usually seeing Gus struggle because of something that he’d done was a genuine source of amusement, but today didn’t seem to be the case.

Forgetting the chair, Gus stood up and walked over to his friend, who stood in the middle of the office looking lost and confused. Not that that was new, but it was certainly worrisome as he was silent the whole time.

“Uh…Shawn? Are…are you okay?”

Shawn shook his head.

“No. I’m not.”

There was a pregnant pause, and Gus finally broke it with, “Are you gonna tell me _why_ you’re not okay?”

Shawn shrugged...then nodded…and then turned on his heel and went and collapsed on the couch, leaving Gus feeling more confused than before. Realizing he was going to have to pull out his Doctor Phil routine, he dragged Shawn’s chair from his desk (as his was now somehow permanently stuck six inches from the floor) and pulled it up to the couch, sitting back and crossing his ankle over his knee.

“Shawn…what’s wrong?”

He made a groaning sound and rolled away from him, pressing his face into the cushions of the couch, and Gus rolled his eyes.

“I need you to use your big boy words, Shawn. Can you do that for me? Otherwise, Doctor Guster cannot help you this evening and there will be no rescheduling of your appointment.”

At this, his best friend rolled back over and gave him a look, his arms crossed firmly over his chest, his eyes wary. Gus recognized the body language. It was the same look and gestures that he’d used when Shawn had asked him not be mad at him for the fact that he was dating his sister. Oh, shit. This was not good.

“Do you promise not to yell?”

Definitely not good.

“I can make no promises, Shawn, you know that, so please don’t ask me to promise something that might not be physically possible. Just…break it to me gently. Who is it this time?”

There was a long stretch of silence, and then…

“Lassiter.”

Gus paused…and then laughed and said, “No, really, man. Who is it? I mean, this was a good way to break it to me, I’ve gotta tell you, because we both know that _that_ would be a disaster, no matter how you spun it, so anything else would seem like a cakewalk compared to…” He trailed off as he Shawn turn back and face the cushions, not laughing with him. Oh, shit. Was he…?

“Wait…are you serious, Shawn?”

“See, I knew I shouldn’t have said anything to you,” came the fake psychic’s muffled voice from where he now had turned back around, pressing his face into the cushions once more.

Guster stared. After a moment, he stood up. He walked over to their mini bar and pulled out two small bottles of Jack Daniels. Normally, he was not whiskey drinker, but this was a conversation that he could not have while entirely sober, of that much he was certain.

“Shawn,” he said, nudging his friend’s shoulder with the bottle. “Here. Take this. If we’re going to be talking about you and Lassiter as a…couple,” he shuddered at saying the word and quickly unscrewed the bottle’s lid and threw back a shot. “Yes, drinks will be necessary. Of that I am absolutely certain.”

At that point, Shawn rolled back over and copied his friend’s actions, unscrewing the lid and taking a quick sip, though not nearly as much as Gus had.

After several awkward moments of silence, Gus managed to put his thoughts enough to together to ask, “Is it…reciprocal?”

Shawn smirked and replied, “Yes. Of that, I am certain.”

Gus threw back another shot and he made a disgusted face as he said, “I absolutely do _not_ need to know how you know that, so let’s move on to the rest of this horribly uncomfortable conversation that I pray I will forget thanks to my friend, Mr. Daniels, here.” His hand shook for a moment…and he took a third shot. “Now…you two…like each other.” Shawn nodded. “And you know this how exactly?”

It physically made the man ill to ask the question, but he knew that it had to be asked.

“Well,” said Shawn, sitting up and uncharacteristically running a hand through his hair, “He kissed me. Made it pretty obvious.”

Guster immediately parried with, “Are you sure that _he_ kissed _you_ , and this isn’t just one of your twisted ways of making the situation fit the facts that you want it to? I mean,” he added, wary, “You have been known to skew things just a bit out of perspective, Shawn, and are you certain that this isn’t one of those times?”

Shawn snorted.

“Oh, how I wish. That would make things so much easier. Trust me, it was him. We were arguing…well, _I_ was arguing, and then, out of nowhere, he leans across the seat and kisses me, plants one right on the lips! Kinda hard to misinterpret that, as much as I would like to.”

Gus stared at the small bottle in his hands, the whole situation feeling a little too surreal. His best friend was talking about locking lips with SBPD’s Head Detective, Carlton Lassiter. It didn’t feel like it should be real, and yet it was. Gus took a deep breath and another sip of the whiskey in front of him, trying to steady his nerves.

“Okay. With what little I have for reference, here’s what it sounds like: Lassiter…kissed you.” Shawn nodded. “And you kissed him back.” Shawn nodded again. “And you…enjoyed it?”

At this point, Shawn let out a frustrated sound and stood up and began to pace, gesturing wildly with his hands, his own bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the couch, long forgotten.

“Look, you’re acting like the fact that I like Lassi is some sort of new thing! Do you _not_ remember how I acted during the first year that I knew him? Do you not remember _all_ the time and effort I put into flirting with him and throwing myself at him? There was a _lot_ of touching involved, if I remember correctly!”

He stopped pacing when Gus said, “Oh no, I remember all of _that_ , Shawn, a little too well. But I also remember the very pertinent fact that Lassiter can’t stand you! All he’s done since day one is try to discredit you and he’s never exactly tried to hide the fact that he doesn’t exactly like you, so excuse me if I find it a bit hard to believe that he suddenly decided to kiss you for no apparent reason! This is _Lassiter_ we’re talking about! Even if he did like you, and that is one hell of a big if, it still wouldn’t work out because of the fact that you’ve been _lying_ to him for the past six years!”

His chest heaved, as if he’d been running, and he was surprised when Shawn simply looked at him. Gus knew that look.

Before he could ask, his friend said, “About that…yeah, uhm…Lassi sort of…you know… _knows_ …”

Gus’s eyebrows shot up.

“Uh, care to run that by me again?”

Shawn dropped his shoulders and dramatically threw up his hands and repeated, “He knows that I’m not psychic, alright? Not exactly the way I wanted to tell you, but you didn’t really give me a choice, here!”

Guster shook his head, not believing what he was hearing, and replied, “No. You see, that’s not possible. Because, if he actually knew that you weren’t psychic, you wouldn’t _be_ here, you would be sitting in a jail cell with some dude looking at you like you were his next meal ticket! Of that, I am absolutely certain.”

By this point, Shawn almost looked pissed.

“I’m not making this up, Gus! I told him weeks ago, and, guess what?” He put his wrists up in front of him. “No handcuffs!”

Gus stared at him for a moment, and then said, “Okay…maybe that’s true.” He stood up and put his whiskey on the desk and then looked back at his best friend. “But if it _is_ true, the question is…why did you tell him? And why didn’t he get mad?”

Shawn snorted.

“I never said he didn’t get mad. Oh, he was definitely mad, beyond pissed, actually. But, he was mostly angry at himself for not figuring it out.”

“Still, Shawn. Why did you tell him? Did he catch you in a compromising position? Did you have no other choice but to tell him to save your life?”

Immediately, Shawn’s look went guarded and he wouldn’t meet Gus’s eye. Finally, after a long awkward silence, he said, “Let’s just leave it at I didn’t have another choice, okay?”

Gus was about to press for more information, but from the look on Shawn’s face, he knew that he would get nothing out of him. He knew that if he tried to push, that Shawn Spencer would simply shut down. He knew that look, he’d seen it before, so he wouldn’t test it.

“Okay, Shawn. Good enough. For now.”

* * *

Shawn waited until Gus left and threw himself on the couch. He was not going back to his apartment tonight. He had meant to get relationship advice, not tell his friend about the fact that Lassi knew his secret. Damn. What was he going to tell Carlton? Because he _would_ have to tell him.

He let out a frustrated sigh and threw himself _off_ the couch, heading for the bathroom. He thought he still had a few spare pain pills tucked away somewhere.

Shawn, just as he entered the bathroom, felt a crippling pain shoot down his back, and he grasped at the edge of the sink to keep himself upright. During his entire conversation with Gus, he’d felt intermittent pain up and down his right side, but had brushed it off, purposely not showing any sign of discomfort in front of his friend.

Now, it was getting too much to handle.

However, as he pulled out the candy tube that, yes, still held two pain pills in it, he could hear Carlton’s voice in the back of his head saying, _I’m worried about you_ , and he paused.

And then popped the pills in anyway.

What the hell did the detective know about his pain? He could claim to be worried, but he didn’t know what it was like, day in and day out, slowly having your body taken away from you in pieces, knowing that soon enough, no matter how long Shawn tried to hide it, everyone would know, and all he would receive would be looks of pity.

He didn’t fucking need that.

He slipped to the floor, not having enough energy to try and keep himself upright. The tile was hard and cold beneath him, and he absently traced the corner of one of the chipped ones, his fingers digging into it as his brain tried to wrap around what was happening to him. This was one of the reasons why he rarely let himself be alone while he was awake. His mind went to a place that he didn’t enjoy, a place where everything was a chaotic mess instead of neatly filed under labels such as _Things That Makes Jules Smile,_ or alphabetized lists like _Gus’s Pet Peeves_ , and instead lay strewn about in half-written documents and too-detailed photographs.

Like the paper that kept on passing through his head that had the partial sentence of, _“Lassiter kissed me, and now I realize that I still have feelings for him, so…”_ and it tormented him to no end. The fact that he was _dying_ made it all the more confusing! He was sick and tired of it.

After a moment, he dragged himself off the floor and back into the main office, lazily snagging the blanket from the back of the couch as he folded himself into the cushions.

Shawn yawned and the thought of _I hope Lassi has better luck with Jules than I did with Gus_ crossed his mind just as he fell asleep.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

O’Hara smiled as she walked into the SBPD, with two coffees in her hand at seven in the evening. Lassiter had been acting strange at the crime scene the day before, and so after a rocky morning, along with a few almost-yelling matches, she came with a peace offering. She had filled his coffee with too much sugar, of course, just the way he liked it, and she hoped it would be enough to placate him.

However, as she approached he seemed to be muttering to himself, and she strained to listen him.

“He didn’t mean it…”

“Who didn’t mean what?”

Carlton’s eyes snapped up and he glared at her and said, “None of your business. Now, we’ve got an easy case load today, so I want to go over a few things from the Hayden case.”

Juliet decided to not push it and simply handed him his coffee, pleased to see the scowl on his face ease up as he took a sip of caffeine. He gestured with the cup in his hand and she knew exactly what he was saying: go get the files and leave me alone. Done and done.

As she wandered back to the file room, she wondered why Lassiter hadn’t snapped more at her. Normally, he was much more abrasive when it came to her trying to pry personal information about him, but his mild, _None of your business,_ had hardly affected her. She paused as she pulled out the file, and leaned on the open drawer, thinking about his disposition. He was less…aggressive. Yes, that was it. He was _much_ less aggressive, and seemed to be almost, well, not _nice,_ but not completely rude, which was a big step for him.

She handed him the file when she came back, noticing that something had arrived on his desk. Whatever it was, it was making Lassiter smile. Actually, he wasn’t exactly smiling, but the faint upward turn of the corner of his mouth told her that he was pleased with something, and his uncharacteristic look had her wondering what it was. She took a step closer to his desk.

Was that a…pineapple Hershey kiss?

“Huh,” Juliet mused out loud. “I didn’t even know they made pineapple flavored chocolate. Who’s it from?”

Lassiter, as if just remembering she was there, quickly shoved the chocolate into his drawer and shook his head, the corner of his mouth going back to its’ usual line.

“Don’t know, don’t care. Now about the case, I think we missed something about the landlady. She seemed to have a pretty weak alibi, and I was thinking that we might get something out of her step-daughter, Rosa, about exactly where she was. Something about the confession feels weird…”

Not really listening, Juliet thought about the chocolate a moment longer…and then grinned.

She sat on the edge of his desk, and said, “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Shawn, recently. Does the chocolate have something to do with that?”

His blue eyes snapped up from the report he’d been reading, and he looked at her like a deer caught in headlights. She inwardly crowed at the fact that she had managed to take the head detective off-guard with just one question. But she hadn’t expected her theory to be right.

“Why would you say that?” he hesitantly asked, as if he really didn’t want to know the answer.

Juliet shrugged her shoulders as she continued to grin, and said, “Oh, no reason…just the fact that you had a _pineapple_ flavored chocolate sitting on your desk, and the fact that you’ve gone out to lunch with him practically every day over the past week.”

“Not every day.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Five out of seven, my bad,” she jokingly corrected herself, but when he didn’t say anything else, she prodded a bit more. “Also, when you and Shawn showed up at the crime scene last night, both of you were acting all…you know. Off.”

Lassiter glared at her and abruptly stood up, the feet of his chair scraping on the wood as he did, grabbing the file from his desk.

“Let’s just get back to work,” he ground out, his jaw clenching, and she silently chastised herself for pushing him. In an attempt to recover the situation, she blurted out, “Look, Carlton, I think it’s a _good_ thing that you’re spending time with him. It seems to be, well, tempering him. You know…evening his moods out.”

He had turned his head away, but now carefully caught her eye, and she could tell from his look that he was actually considering her words. Good. It was about time that her partner started listening to her. He hesitated longer than he normally would, and then sat back down. Juliet knew that she couldn’t say a word before he did, so she waited, wondering what he was about to tell her. He had that look on his face that she’d only seen a few times before, but she still recognized it. It was his serious, yet kind face.

Finally, he said, “We’re…I _think_ we’re…not enemies anymore.”

She grinned like an idiot.

“I knew it! I knew it was possible for you two to get along!” Juliet exclaimed, jumping from the edge of the desk to her feet. “I mean,” she added, tilting her head to one side as she slowly sat back down on his desk, “I never thought that it would be possible without someone there keeping you two from physically killing each other long enough for you two to talk to each other, but, you know, other than that…I knew it.”

He smirked, but it disappeared the instant she asked, “So, what happened last night? You seemed almost angry with him, but not enough to throw him out of the crime scene. Is there some sort of problem?”

Lassiter dodged the question.

“Don’t all my problems have to do with Shawn?”

“Oh, so it’s Shawn, now?” she shot back, one eyebrow arched. The junior partner had never heard Lassiter use the psychic’s first name before without it being followed by his last name, usually yelled in violent fits of fury, so to hear it said so casually without any venom in his voice was a refreshing change.

“What? No, I mean…”

He furiously tried to backpedal, but Juliet cut him off, her wide grin softening to a faint smile.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s nice to hear you talking about him for once as if you _weren’t_ planning on shooting him and then trying to hide his body.” Lassiter grinned at that, and said, “Oh, it’s still a possibility,” and she shook her head and finished with, “His only real friend has been Gus, and their relationship is _all_ sorts of weird, so the fact that you two are becoming friends…well, it’s just nice to hear.”

She reached over and patted his arm and walked back to her desk, only just realizing that he’d managed to not answer her question.

Juliet turned back towards him and raised her voice so he could hear her.

“Hey…so why were you two all weird at the crime scene?”

He gave her a look.

“Just because you’re my partner, that doesn’t mean you get to know everything about my personal life, O’Hara. That’s between me and him. Understood?”

Hearing the finality in his tone, Juliet was upset, but the fact that he’d said the psychic’s first name a second time eased her mood. So she nodded, lifting her hand in a mock salute. She smiled to herself when she saw him roll his eyes and go back to the Hayden case file, and then sat down at her own desk, pulling out her own copy.

The junior partner skimmed it, looking at the landlady, Carmela Santiago, but was finding nothing suspicious. It had been an open and shut robbery case from three months before, right before Shawn had gotten out of the hospital. She couldn’t see a thing that would indicate that anyone other than Eduardo Ruiz (her ex-son-in-law) had done the deed. Humoring her partner, however, she looked at it for a few more minutes before letting out an exasperated sigh.

Carlton looked up from his desk and gave her a look.

“Do you have an opinion, O’Hara?”

She gave him a look right back.

“Actually, yes. I do.” He arched an eyebrow. “My opinion is that this was an open and shut case and that there’s nothing more to find! I mean, why would you want to re-open this case? It was pretty straight forward, the evidence pointed towards him and Ed even confessed to the crime! There was nothing that said anyone else could have done it.”

Lassiter nodded, and replied, “I know. That’s what’s bothering me.”

“Huh?”

He stood up from his desk and walked over to hers, opening the file folder and pointing to the picture of Eduardo.

“The evidence all pointed to him. _All_ of it. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

She gave him a look.

“You seemed pretty happy about it at the time. In fact, I distinctly remember the fact that you were thrilled that it had ended so quickly because of…how did you put it? Oh, yes: the fact that the stupid psychic hadn’t come anywhere near or even touched the case.”

He shifted and rolled his eyes, and replied, “That’s not the point, O’Hara. The point is, there is a problem with the evidence. It was all too simple, too clean, too neat, and I feel like an idiot for not seeing it at the time. It’s so obvious that it was set up. Shawn would have seen it in an instant.”

Juliet looked up, confused by his phrasing.

“Shawn would have…? What do you mean, see it?”

His eyes snapped back to hers and he quickly said, almost stumbling over his words, “You know, psychically, or whatever. The only reason why the chief didn’t suggest him for the case was because it seemed open and shut, like you said. But I’m thinking maybe we run it by him, you know, just in case we missed something…not that I believe that he’s psychic,” he hastily added, and his partner gave him a skeptical look at hearing it. He was acting odd about the whole thing.

Since when did he ever _want_ to ask for the psychic’s help? This was a first for him.

“Okay,” she said, drawing out the word. “Sure. Do you want me to…”

Before she could finish her question, Lassiter’s phone rang, and he picked it up.

“Lassiter.” At hearing whoever was on the other end of the phone, his eyes went hard and his whole body tensed. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just…don’t touch anything.”

“Something wrong?”

Her partner let out a forced breath and shook his head.

“No…I mean, nothing that you can help with. Look, I’m calling it a night, for now. You can run this by Shawn tomorrow, alright?”

And with that, he briskly walked out of the station, while Juliet looked on in confusion. What had just happened? Who had just called Lassiter and caused him to act like that? She mused a moment longer, and then looked back at his desk, where he hadn’t even cleaned up his papers. She walked over and straightened them into a neat pile, glanced at his barely touched cup of coffee, and then looked back at the door.

At least he was finally making friends with their resident psychic.

With that in mind, she shrugged, and walked back to her desk, a slight spring in her step as she grabbed her own work to take back home. What was important was that Carlton and Shawn were finally getting along, which was something that she never thought would happen.

Finally.

* * *

 

Carlton stormed through his front door, yelling out, “Shawn? Where are you?”

He heard a faint, “In here,” coming from the direction of his living room, and he quickly made his way there and found the younger man clutching to the edge of Carlton’s couch, sitting on the floor, his other hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles white.

“Dammit, Shawn,” he muttered as he knelt down and helped him to his feet. “What happened?” he asked as he slipped an arm under his shoulders, helping him back towards his bedroom. He was not going to leave him lying on the floor, as much as he wanted to. The man was sick, after all.

“Well, you see, I was doing my usual raid of your place, when my legs, both of them this time, decided to stop working. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to paralyzed. Let’s just say, not as fun as I originally thought, though I do think I’ve got a sort of a Ron Kovic vibe going on here, but without Cruise’s seventies mustache or the horrible hair.”

The detective clenched his jaw. It was taking all of his effort to not yell at the fake psychic, and instead of yelling, he simply said, “Tell me what happened,” and proceeded to help him onto the bed without dislocating his shoulder in the process.

Shawn panted, and replied, “I did my usual breaking and entering, though it’s not really breaking and entering when your hide-a-key is _that_ obvious,” he managed to jab between painful gasps. “And as I was digging through your pantry, you’re out of pancake mix, by the way,” he added as his head hit the pillow, “I felt a stabbing pain in my leg and proceeded to ignore it. I then decided to go and take a look at your atrocious movie collection. By the way, when did you buy The Lost Boys? That’s one of my faves, man.”

Deciding to humor him as he pulled off Shawn’s shoes (he was _not_ letting him get dirt on his Egyptian cotton sheets), he said, “It’s the only decent vampire film ever made, Shawn. It shows the myth for what it truly is. Un-romanticized and utterly devoid of any redeeming moral qualities.”

Shawn grinned up at him through his pain.

“Plus, Keifer Sutherland is hot, right?”

“…Maybe.”

Shawn’s grin went ridiculously wide at Carlton’s admission, and he slapped a hand on the detective’s shoulder, saying, “Oh, Lassi…just when I think I know you, you manage to throw me another curve ball. Gotta admit you’re taking me by surprise, tonight. You haven’t even yelled at me yet for breaking into your place. Are you going tame on me?”

Shawn moved his hand and patted Lassiter’s head as if he were a dog and, fuming, Carlton reached up and threw it off, glaring at him.

“You touch me one more time, I’m handcuffing you to the bed, I don’t care that you’re sick!”

The fake psychic’s eyebrow shot up.

“Ooh…you promise?”

Flushing at the implications of his tone, Carlton stood and turned towards the door, but Shawn’s faint, “Wait,” had him pausing and turning his head. When he heard him say it a second time, he took a closer look…and saw the look on Shawn’s face. For the first time in all of his time of knowing him, Shawn Spencer looked scared. It was taking Lassiter off guard, and he wasn’t sure how to handle it.

He stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his sanity hanging by a thread.

“What, Shawn.”

The younger man hesitated, also another first for Lassiter. Hazel eyes kept on drifting between him and the ceiling, and then finally Shawn said, “I don’t…I don’t really want…you know. To…to be alone, right now.”

Lassiter’s eyes narrowed and the wheels in his head turned, locks clicking into place.

“When did you get here?” Shawn immediately looked away, and Lassiter suddenly felt angry at himself for not realizing the signs. He moved over to the bed and sat down on the edge. “Shawn. I asked you a question. When. Did. You get here.”

Shawn swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.

“At four.”

Shit. He’d been paralyzed on the floor for over three hours? Alone?

“Dammit, Shawn,” he breathed out, all of his anger leaving him in one breath, but then renewed with the next sharp breath he took. “Why didn’t you call me earlier? Why the hell did you just lay there on my floor and not reach for your damn phone? What the hell were you thinking?!”

Shawn, using his hands to help himself up, sat up and leaned against the pillows, his eyes shifting between Lassiter and his legs.

Finally, he said in a voice so quiet Carlton had to strain to hear it, “I couldn’t bear the thought of you looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know what,” Shawn snapped uncharacteristically. “With that…that _look._ That look that every person gets when someone they know is seen as less than what everyone usually sees them as. With pity.” He spat out the word as if it were a curse word and his shoulders tensed. “Shit, Carlton. In case you haven’t realized it by now, I like you. Like…a _lot._ And I’d really like if you felt the same way, but not out of feeling sorry for me.” He went to move, but his legs didn’t respond and he pounded his fist on the bed in frustration and anger. “Fuck, this sucks! Everything about this sucks! Of course the only time I get the courage to tell you the truth is when I’m doomed to have no future, let alone with _you_ , the man who’s hated me since forever, and now everything has turned to shit, and god, I’m a total mess…”

By this point, tears were streaming down his face and Lassiter was frozen. Suddenly, the weight of what Shawn had just said hit him, and he shook himself from his stupor and said, “No, Shawn.”

Shawn looked at him, eyes wet, his jaw tight trying to keep his lip from trembling, and Carlton knew that he had to tell him.

“Do you really think if I hated you that much I would have ever let you near a crime scene?” The fake psychic looked at him in surprise, so he continued. “After the first few cases, I knew you weren’t psychic, I was just mad that I couldn’t prove it. In fact, if I remember correctly, I even told you so once when I was drunk.” Shawn’s eyes widened in surprise.

“But, you told me…”

“Like I was ever going to admit it? Besides, if I hadn’t been clouded by my attraction to you, you never would have consulted on another case…”

Shawn looked at him in shock.

“Attracted…? But…how…”

“You’re the genius. Put it together.”

Shawn’s eyes cleared and he sat up a bit more, no longer looking like an animal expecting to struck at any second…and then a gasping chuckle escaped him as everything fit into place, his whole face lighting up, his eyes shining bright and not because of tears, and the detective had to stop himself from smiling like an idiot at the sight. This was what Guster got to see? This look? Every time Shawn figured something out that no one else could? It was amazing.

“All the manhandling, all the pulling, the shoving, hell, the full body contact, that was you flirting _back_?”

At that, Carlton startled.

“What do you mean, flirting _back_?”

Shawn grinned, and it took Carlton off guard with how bright it was.

“Every time I groped you, Lassi, it was all to get your attention! I mean, plenty of other people have always been around…why do you think I chose you? I was trying to get your damn attention. Huh. Looked like it worked after all,” he added, licking his lips and smiling at him.

Carlton sighed.

“Well, since we’ve gotten the profound revelations out of the way, will you scoot over? I’m not sleeping on that couch,” he said as he pulled off his shoes, shirt and dress pants, leaving him in his undershirt and boxers. Shawn scooted over, and the older man reached down and didn’t even think about it as he moved Shawn’s legs for him and said, “How much longer do you think?”

“Oh, not too long,” Shawn replied, knowing exactly what Lassi was asking. “Feeling should come back relatively soon.”

“Good,” said Carlton, tucking himself around Shawn’s back. “Now, sleep. I’ve got to be up early.”

He didn’t see Shawn smile as he nodded and said, “Sure, Carlton. No problem.”

And they slept.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Shawn slowly woke up the next morning, disoriented, wondering why there was a pair of warm arms wrapped around him…and then he remembered. Oh, right. Lassi had let him crash at his place last night. As well as let him sleep in his bed. Shawn stretched slightly, pleased to feel feeling back in his legs, no pins and needles, and he shifted slightly in the detective’s arms, hoping to fall back asleep and enjoy at least an hour more of Lassi’s arms around him…

But then Lassiter said, “So help me, Shawn, if you fall back asleep, I will strangle you.” He moved his arms out from under him, shaking his left arm that had been pinned under the younger man’s side, and Shawn turned and said, “It’s too early, Carlton…go back to sleep.”

He reached out for him, wanting back the warmth of the taller man, but he was already sitting on the edge of the bed, and glaring at Shawn over his shoulder.

“I told you I had to get up early. You can stay if you want, but if you do, don’t you destroy my kitchen or, so help me, I _will_ shoot you.”

With that, he stood and walked over to the bathroom door, not even bothering to close it all the way as he stripped off his undershirt and proceeded to start up the water in his shower. The door was just enough in the way that Shawn couldn’t see any more, but he could hear Lassiter’s boxers hit the floor and the swish of the shower curtain. Motivated with new found purpose to move, the fake psychic stretched his body across the bed and hung his head off the side, trying to get a better view, straining his neck, until…

Whump.

He could hear Lassiter’s laugh from where he lay on the floor.

“Nice try, Shawn! Not happening.”

Shawn grinned.

“Not happening yet, Lassi-ass!” he shot back, pleased with the new private nickname that he now had for him. Carlton didn’t respond, so he decided that since he’d already fallen out of bed, that he would surprise him. Not in the nice way that he’d like to (they weren’t there yet), but with some breakfast.

His shirt horribly wrinkled, he tore it off and pulled open the second drawer and snagged one of Lassiter’s casual t-shirts. Shawn had “broken in” often enough to know where everything was. He smiled at the one he found. It was the Depeche Mode shirt that he’d seen him wear several weeks ago. He pulled the t-shirt on and headed to the kitchen to whip up a quick breakfast for his cop boyfriend before he went off to work. _Boyfriend,_ he thought to himself as he pulled out a package of bacon and some eggs from the fridge. _Is that what he is, now?_

Shawn thought about it as he moved the eggs around, making an omelet.

Well, they _had_ been going on dates. Lunch dates, which were casual and could be considered just two friends hanging out, but knowing Lassiter and that he didn’t _do_ casual, they probably meant something. There had also been flirting. A _lot_ of it. And, well, of course, there was the kiss. Mind you, there hadn’t been a second one, but Shawn could live with that for now.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his pocket and started belting the Go Go’s “We Got the Beat”.

Moving the spatula to one hand, he answered.

“Hello, Jules! Miss me already?”

_“Not exactly, Shawn. Lassiter had me pull an old case file last night but left before we could take a closer look at it. He asked me to call you for your help.”_

Shawn’s hand stopped moving, and he stood there, slightly stunned. After a second, he quickly recovered and said, “Gee, that’s nice of him. Do you think it’s a trap?”

He could practically hear her shrug over the phone as she replied, _“He seemed dead serious. I know, big shocker for me, too, but I guess since you two have been hanging out together, he’s been trusting you more. Which is kind of nice, really. I hate having to run interference all the time.”_ Juliet paused for a moment, and then added, _“You’re a good influence on him, Shawn. I hope you know that.”_

He laughed, flipped the omelet one-handed, and started a second one as he replied, “Oh, Jules, of course I know _that_! So, when do you want me to come by?”

_“As soon as possible? Is that too early for you?”_

He scoffed.

“I’m already up, it’s not a problem.”

He could hear her smile on the other end of the line, and they said their goodbyes and hung up. Shawn quickly texted Gus, telling him to meet him at the precinct in half an hour.

A few seconds after he’d hit _send_ , Lassiter walked into the kitchen, surprised to see Shawn standing at his stove, cooking breakfast. He rolled his eyes and said, “Look, if you’re gonna use my food, at least buy me replacements, alright? I’ve gotta go.” He went to finish tying his tie, but his fingers stilled when the younger man replied, “But aren’t you gonna eat?”

He looked up at Shawn and saw him putting the freshly made omelet, along with a side of bacon, onto a plate and on the table.

Shawn, at seeing Carlton frozen, walked over and reached up without asking, brushing the detective’s fingers to the side as he said, “Here, let me do that for you,” and quickly and flawlessly tied his dark blue tie into a double Windsor. After he’d pulled away, Carlton moved in a haze towards the table and sat down, rolling up his still undone sleeves, picking up the fork Shawn had placed to the side and took a bite of the omelet. It was good.

Not making any eye contact as Shawn sat down across from him with his own food, he ate, trying not to notice how nice it felt to have someone cook for him and genuinely enjoy it, and not be expecting anything in return. He brushed the feeling of domesticity off, knowing that it could never happen, and then he noticed the shirt the fake psychic was wearing…

“Is that my shirt?”

Shawn looked up and glanced down and nodded.

“Yeah, hope you don’t mind. Mine was a mess and I needed something clean to wear. Is…is this okay?”

Not sure how to respond, his body responding in a strange, almost pleased way at seeing the younger man wearing one of his shirts, he simply nodded and swallowed another bit of food.

“Yeah…uh…sure.”

They said nothing as they both finished their breakfasts, even though Shawn kept on stealing glances across the table to see if Lassi was enjoying his food. Yes, he was insecure. Hell, he’d never cooked breakfast for anyone before, and they hadn’t even…well…you know. He watched Carlton more than he ate, but then smiled when he realized that the detective had already cleaned his entire plate. Shawn quickly poured the coffee that he’d started into a cup, secured the lid, and handed it to the detective.

Carlton grabbed it, shot back up to his feet and absently ran a hand down his tie…and then looked at Shawn and said, “Did you bring your bike?”

Shawn nodded.

“Yeah, I brought it. I’ll see you there in a few.”

Lassiter nodded putting down the coffee long enough to button his sleeves, and then grabbed his coat and his keys before stalking out the door and closing it behind him. Shawn watched for a moment longer, staring at the door, trying to understand what had just happened…and then brushed it off.  Just as he stood, with the dishes in his hands, Lassiter suddenly stormed back in, walked over to him and wrapped a hand around the back of Shawn’s neck, pulling him into a breathtakingly hot kiss, tongue included, that sufficiently shut down all of the fake psychic’s brain cells.

There was a clatter as Shawn dropped the plates and reciprocated in kind, one hand reaching down for his waist, the other tangling in the short hairs at the back of Carlton’s neck.

They pulled away at the same time, and Lassiter gave him a look, one eyebrow arched.

“You’ll be here tonight?”

Shawn nodded, rendered speechless, still recovering.

Oh, yeah. He’d _definitely_ be there.

* * *

Gus walked into the station with two coffees in one hand and a pineapple smoothie in the other. The instant he saw Juliet, he smiled, handed her one of the coffees, and said, “Shawn texted me and told me get here as soon as I could. So, we have a case?”

She shrugged, taking a sip of the caffeine he’d given her, and then handed him a copy of the case file and replied, “Not exactly. Lassiter insisted on going over a closed case and now says that we need Shawn on it because it was too easy.” Gus raised an eyebrow, and she gave him a strained smile. “Yeah, I know. Weird, right? That he’s asking for Shawn’s help on this?”

Gus shrugged, trying not to give too much away.

“Well, I guess…but, you know, they _have_ been spending more time together, you know. All those lunches and everything...”

Juliet smiled and nodded, looking pleased.

“Yeah, they have. Lassiter told me about the two of them just yesterday. I’m just really happy for them, you know? They’re more alike than they realize and it’s really nice seeing them like this. You know what, Gus? I think they’re a pretty good team.”

Gus nearly spit out the coffee he’d just taken a drink from, and said, surprised, “Wait a second…you know?”

“Of course I know! Geez, Gus, do you think Lassiter’s a robot or something? We talk, just like good partners are supposed to, and he told me all about him and Shawn last night.”

“Then you’re okay with the whole…you know…relationship?”

Juliet rolled her eyes and nodded, saying, “Of course! God knows it took them long enough to get here. Now that they’re at this point, I think things will be easier when we work together.”

Gus couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Needing to make sure he was hearing her correctly, he leaned in closer, took a furtive look around the bullpen to make sure that no one would overhear him, and whispered, “So…you’re okay with the kiss? That didn’t make you jealous or anything? I mean, I know you kind of had a thing for Shawn at one point, but you must be over that if you’re okay with him and Lassiter.”

She looked at him, her eyes wide with shock.

“Kiss? What kiss? Gus, what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that your partner and my best friend are in a romantic relationship!” he hissed out, wondering how her words could have been interpreted any other way. “What the hell were _you_ talking about?”

“About the fact that they were finally getting over their petty differences and were finally friends!” Juliet hissed back, confused. However, after a second, she realized that was Gus had just told her explained some of the more unexplainable behavior of her partner from the day before. The pineapple chocolate. The way he’d flushed when she’d said, _Does it have something to do with Shawn?_ , and the way that he’d glared at her when she’d pressed about the crime scene from the night before. Hold up…

“Gus,” she whispered, trying to get her stories straight. “When did the kiss happen? Was it two nights ago?”

Gus looked at her and nodded.

“Yeah, but how did you know that?”

Juliet let out a frustrated sigh and said, “ _That’s_ why he was acting so weird at the crime scene! Ugh, I feel like an idiot! _This_ is why Shawn’s been acting off for weeks! He’s been hoping to make a move on Carlton, it explains everything! The more mature behavior, the way he was taking everything more seriously. It’s the only way Carlton would ever even consider him!”

Gus gave her a look, one eyebrow arched, and replied, “Uh, Juliet…Shawn told me that Lassiter kissed _him._ ”

At that information, she shook her head.

“Wait, then…dammit, now I’m confused…”

Gus snorted.

“That makes two of us.”

Just as they were about to talk about it some more, the head detective walked through the front door, coffee in hand, his steps seeming lighter than they usually were, his stereotypical glower nowhere to be seen as he walked over towards Gus and his partner, saying, “O’Hara, good to see you’re already here. I think I might have thought of a way to break into the rocky alibi.” He saw Gus and said, “Oh, looks like Shawn already texted you. Well, you might actually be useful, so why the hell not.”

He then went and sat down at his desk, humming under his breath.

It was less than a minute later that Shawn burst through the doors, singing Sinatra at the top of his lungs, not sounding all that bad.

“I’ve got the world on a string, sittin’ on a rainbow, got the string around my fiiiiingeeeer! What a world…this is the liiiiife…I’m. So in looove!”

Juliet looked at him, and then glanced back at Lassiter, who was completely ignoring the psychic, and she said, “Hey, Shawn. Glad to see you’re in a good mood,” she added as he grabbed her by the waist and swung her around in a circle, grinning like a maniac.

“Oh, Jules, you don’t know the half of it,” he said, his eyes bright and mischievous.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she jabbed back at him, and he stopped swinging her around and gave her a look…and then he leaned in and whispered in her ear, “The spirits are telling me that Gus spilled the beans about me and Lassi, didn’t he?” She nodded. He let out a short laugh and whispered to her again, saying, “Don’t let Gus know that I know, okay?” She nodded again.

He pulled back and threw himself on the edge of Lassiter’s desk, at which Lassiter groaned.

“Spencer, I _was_ in a good mood…”

The psychic waggled his eyebrows at him and said, “Oh, and why was that, Lassi-face?”

“None of your damn business, Spencer,” he snapped back, but with slightly less venom than usual. “Now, why don’t you go throw yourself at someone else for a change?”

“Would you really want that?” Shawn quipped, and Juliet had to bite back a smile at seeing an almost jealous look cross her partner’s face, before he squared his shoulders and said, “You can do whatever you want, Spencer, so long as it doesn’t interfere with my work.”

The younger man’s eyes lit up and he dropped from the edge of the desk and said, “As you wish, Detective Lassiter. Now…where’s this case you wanted my help on?”

He shoved a file in his direction.

“Take a look. With _out_ the singing.”

Shawn smirked.

“Anytime, Lassi-lips,” he said, and Juliet had to keep from laughing at seeing the flush that covered Lassiter’s face. No she wouldn’t say a word. Not to Gus that Shawn knew that he’d spilled the beans, and not to Lassiter that she knew that he and Shawn were in a relationship. It was cute, actually.

As Shawn walked away, she turned to Gus and said, “He’s wearing Lassiter’s shirt.”

Gus startled and replied, “What? But that’s a Depeche Mode shirt. Lassiter doesn’t like eighties music.”

Juliet smiled.

“He wore it three weeks ago and took it home. Wonder where Shawn got it from?”

Gus blanched and Juliet grinned…but, as she sat down at her desk, a dark thought crossed her mind. Some of her friend’s behavior had been explained away because of his secret relationship with her partner, but the rest of it didn’t quite add up. She realized that Shawn had lost some weight, and he’d been more…well, _clumsy_ than usual, and not in the on-purpose way that she’d seen in the past. This was different.

Deciding to simply be happy for her two closest friends, she let it go for the time being. Shawn would tell her when he was ready.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Spencer was spending most nights at Lassiter’s place, some of his clothes finding their way into a conveniently empty drawer at the bottom of the detective’s dresser. They had done nothing more than share a bed and meals together on occasion, but Shawn was aching to make it more.

He woke up that morning and reached over to find that his detective has already left for work. He knew he wouldn’t need to be consulted with for a simple armed robbery (he’d overheard part of the conversation when he was half-asleep earlier), so he took the time to himself to think about what their next step was supposed to be. He knew that what he was doing was dangerous. Lassiter knew both of his secrets…and Spencer knew that he was taking advantage of it and using it to spend as much time with the man as possible, as he was the only person that he didn’t feel he had to put up some sort of wall with.

With Juliet, it was the lies that he was psychic _and_ that he was sick.

With Gus, it was the fact that he hadn’t told him about his illness.

With his father, well…it was complicated.

Ironically enough, the only thing that he normally _would_ hide from everyone, was the thing that everyone but his father knew: that he and Lassiter were an item. It gave Spencer some sense of relief that people knew about that, even though no one said it out loud. But Spencer knew that people knowing wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to actually _be_ with him, in the boy-boy sense…

However, he wasn’t sure how to tell Lassiter.

He had helped the head detective with the Ruiz case over the past few days, and had quickly discovered that it had been the daughter, and not the son-in-law who was guilty. She was a devout Catholic who didn’t believe in divorce, but no longer wanted to be married to her husband, so she made sure all of the evidence pointed to him simply so she could legally be granted a divorce by default from the Catholic church. Spencer was shocked that someone would go that far, but Lassiter had seemingly been completely unaffected by the whole affair.

That, alone, had the fake psychic wondering just what the detective’s feelings were for him. Lassiter was mostly a closed book, and even with their most recent addition of sharing a bed, the fake psychic wasn’t sure if there was any emotion involved.

As much as it pained him to think it, he was probably going to have to talk to Henry. He was once a detective and would know what he should do.

Of course, it was also the _last_ thing he wanted to do.

It was early enough in the morning, he could take a pill and not need one until later that evening, so he quickly popped one in, and then pocketed the bottle. He couldn’t keep it at Lassiter’s place, obviously, so he had been keeping them in his jacket at all times. Reluctantly, he walked out to his bike and threw a leg over it.

* * *

Henry Spencer reached for the oregano as he stirred the pot of pasta on the stove. Even though it was quieter around the house than he was used to, he would never admit to miss having someone around, let alone admit that sometimes he actually _missed_ Shawn.

He was used to having his son drop by at any and all hours of the day and night, determined to annoy him in every possible way, but over the past few weeks there had been a noticeable lack of his presence.

He was slightly concerned, but mostly relieved. From what he’d heard from Gus, Shawn was finally acting his age, and Henry was more than a bit relieved to hear it. Again, he would never _admit_ it, but he regularly worried about his only son. Mainly about the fact that his life consistently seemed to be falling apart at the seams do to his own lack of self-awareness and responsibility.

His appendix bursting about a month before had put him in a panic, though he hadn’t shown it outwardly. Inwardly, he’d been a mess.

He brushed it off and just as he added in some salt into the pot, there was a knock at the door.

Interesting.

No one he knew ever knocked…well, except for Lassiter.

He threw the hand towel over his shoulder, set the pot to simmer, and then was entirely confused when he saw that it was Shawn at the front door. What the hell was he doing knocking? Not wanting to let on, he casually made his way to the door and pulled open the door.

“Shawn…”

“Hey, Dad.” Red flag. He always called him Henry. “Mind if I come in?”

Nodding, completely unsure and not enjoying the feeling, he opened the door the rest of the way and stared at him from the corner of his eye as Shawn walked by him. As soon as the door was closed, he worried the cloth in his hands, trying to do anything to distract himself from whatever horribly awkward conversation that was about to happen. He recognized the signs.

The first sign? He’d knocked on the door. Dead giveaway.

“So, Shawn…what brings you by?”

“Your neighborhood famous spaghetti, of course!”

Henry rolled his eyes, and shook his head, saying, “Oh, yes, because that was _such_ a difficult deduction. Even _I_ can smell it from here. Don’t insult my intelligence, Shawn. Why are you here?”

Shawn went silent. As his son turned on his heel and began to pace, one hand on his waist, the other in his hair, the older Spencer had a sudden flashback. Senior year of high school Shawn had come to him like this, and he remembered exactly why: it had been a boy. Scott Timmons. Varsity baseball player and, apparently, gay. Shawn had wanted advice on how to ask him out. Mr. Spencer had long since come to terms with his son’s open sexuality, but that did not make it any easier to talk to him about it.

Women were easier to understand than gay guys; at least, for Henry Spencer. Men were just a whole mess of repressed emotions. Combine that with his son, who had been forced to hide his bi-sexual nature since late middle school, it was not easy giving him relationship advice. So, he was going to head him off at the pass.

“Okay, who’s the guy?”

Green eyes snapped up to meet his.

“What? Why would you think that? Who says someone else is even involved? Couldn’t I just be coming to you for cooking advice?”

He snorted.

“Seriously? You do know who you’re talking to, right? I’m the one who taught you all about reading people, and you, Shawn, are an open book. Last time you came to me like this, Scott was involved. You do remember that incident, right?”

Shawn’s tightened shoulders dropped and he gave in.

“Yeah. I remember. Not exactly one of your finest moments in parenting, if I remember correctly. I believe you told me to, what was the phrase you used? Oh, right…to approach him from--”

Henry quickly cut him off.

“I remember. On that, I think we both agree, that it wasn’t exactly _your_ finest hour, either.” Shawn rolled his eyes, disproving all of the facts that he’d been told by Gus this far, that said he was acting more mature. He was currently seeing no sign of it. “However,” he quickly added, “That’s beside the point. Who brings you here, today?”

Shawn’s whole body language shifted to that of defense, as though he was preparing himself for an attack, and Henry prepared himself for the worst. He’d always been afraid that this day would come. That one day Shawn would show up and the first two words out of his mouth would be, “It’s Gus,” and so he took a deep breath…

“It’s Lassiter.”

…and suddenly found himself choking on air. What the _fuck_ had he just said? He was obviously hearing things.

“Uh, care to run that by me again, Shawn? I think I had something in my ear.”

Instead of laughing, his son glared at him, glowering, and Henry was surprised when he said, “Okay, yeah, I expected that from Gus, but not from _you_ , dad! I mean, it must have pretty damn obvious to you when I first started consulting for the SBPD that Lassiter was my main goal. Hell, even Gus saw it!” He turned away from him, and Henry took the towel from his shoulder and threw it in the general direction of the nearest chair and tried not to say anything more, for fear of making things worse. Shawn continued. “Look, it’s not just a fling. I have… _feelings_ for him. Feelings I haven’t had for anyone before.”

Slightly out of his daze, he suggested, “Disgust? Anger? Resentment?”

His son’s eyes snapped back up to his.

“Oh, I’ve felt _those_ before,” he said pointedly, and Henry immediately picked up on the tone. “I know _exactly_ what those are like, no question. No, what I’m feeling now…it’s…it’s complicated. But, at the same time,” he quickly amended, “It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever felt. Like breathing.”

Trying to get a handle on the situation, as he had no context for what was happening, Henry asked, “Okay. First of all, when. Second, how. Third…what the hell, Shawn? I mean…what are you _thinking?_ Lassiter? He’s the complete opposite of everything you’ve ever gone after! Not to mention older.”

Shawn nodded.

“Exactly.”

Still confused, he simply said, “Just…explain it to me, alright?”

He let out a sigh and threw himself backwards onto the couch, saying, “Look, it’s...it’s complicated. It’s really, really complicated. The _when_ was a little over two weeks ago. Lassi and I sort of. Well. We kissed.” Henry said nothing, so he continued. “I mean, it wasn’t exactly something I saw coming. I thought the lunch dates were casual, more along the lines of friendship than courtship, but when he kissed me…that was when I knew.”

Henry shook his head and replied, “Okay, then. The how and the what would be the next questions answered.”

“How? I’m still figuring that one out,” Shawn replied, but in the reply, the older Spencer could sense that there was a lie…but he didn’t press it. “The what…well, we both sort of confessed to each other the other night. Apparently, he’s had a thing for me since the beginning, as long as I’ve had my thing for him.”

At that, Henry interrupted.

“Yeah, about that…how did I not know that you had a thing for him? I mean, I figured that you threw yourself at him constantly because you were purposely trying to get on his nerves.”

Shawn smirked.

“That, too.”

The older Spencer rolled his eyes this time, wondering what the hell his son was thinking getting involved with Carlton Lassiter. He was the _last_ person that Henry would have ever thought that his son would be attracted to, but at the same time it made a weird sort of sense. And now he was mad at himself for not seeing it before. The touching, the talking, the constant nagging and perpetual groping…those all should have been dead giveaways. But, of course, he hadn’t seen what was right in front of him. Probably because he didn’t _want_ to see it.

“So, you and Lassiter are…what? An item?”

His son shrugged, and Henry felt more helpless than before. If the feelings were one-way, he would have done everything in his power to convince him to let it go and get over it. However, that wasn’t the case and that was what worried him so badly. There were feelings on both sides, and neither Shawn nor Carlton had a good track record with relationships.

As a cop, he had always known what to do. Throw any situation at him, and he could figure it out sooner or later, and it was almost always sooner. But this was something he had no reference for.

Finally, after a shorter time than he would have preferred thinking about it, he took a step towards the couch.

“Shawn…despite the fact that I find this disturbing in more ways than I’d like to imagine…I’ll give you some advice.” His son lifted his head, and Henry continued. “Even though there seem to be feelings on both sides, I wouldn’t recommend getting involved with Lassiter.”

He could see Shawn was about to protest, so he immediately cut him off.

“Shawn, you don’t seem to get it. I’ve seen how you act in relationships. You have this whole problem of visualizing how a relationship is supposed to be and how it’s _going_ to be, and you sabotage yourself by doing that each and every time. Lassiter is not going to conform to your pre-conceived notions of how you think he’s going to act. I mean, do you not remember how your last relationship with a guy went? You remember Scott, right?”

At this, his son glared at him and spat out, “I remember. What does that have to do with anything?”

Exasperated, Henry let out a frustrated huff of air and retaliated with, “It has everything to do with it, Shawn! I remember how you came home one night after over three months of dating him saying you’d broken things off because he wanted a more serious commitment and that you didn’t want to be tied down. You can’t do that to someone like Lassiter! All it’ll do is make things worse than they already are, which I personally don’t want to see happen. Your relationship with the man is strained enough, as it is. You’ve been lying to him, after all about your abilities.”

At this, however, his son looked shifty, and sat up, avoiding eye contact, and that was when the ex-detective knew that something was wrong.

“About that…”

Henry let out a sigh.

“He knows, doesn’t he?”

Shawn nodded, glancing up for a moment before looking away a second time. Realizing that blowing up over it wasn’t going to help at all, he looked at his son and simply asked, “How did he find out? Did you finally slip up and he caught you?”

“Not exactly. I, uh, sort of…told him.”

Henry looked at Shawn in shock, more than surprised at hearing those words. Never in a million years would he have expected to hear him say that. He stood there, trying to understand why he would have _told_ him, but came up empty…unless it had to do with the third thing that his son was hiding from him. Because he knew that he was hiding something else, he just didn’t know what it was. At first, he thought it was the ‘relationship’ between him and Lassiter, and, for a brief moment, he thought it was this most recent confession, that he’d told Lassiter the truth…but something else lingered in Shawn’s body language. He was still holding something back.

He only said, “Why?”

Shawn shook his head and stood back up, saying, “Look, I had my reasons. He’s been helping me out over the past few weeks, that’s all you need to know.”

Henry grabbed his shoulder just as Shawn tried to brush past him to leave, and growled out, “Shawn, whatever it is you’re keeping from me, you know I’m gonna find out, right? This isn’t over.” Shawn said nothing, so he pressed the issue. “I’m your father and I know when you’re lying to me, so I know that there’s more than you’re telling me about.”

He still remained silent, and Henry snapped.

“Look, Shawn, to be frank, I think you should end it with Lassiter.” Green eyes snapped up to his, and he continued. “That fact that you’ve been in this ‘job’ for six years is a fluke and you and I both know that it’s not in your nature to stick around. The longest romantic relationship you’ve ever had was…what? Five months? Don’t string him along the way you did with Scott. It’s not--”

Suddenly, his son was the one who snapped, forcefully shoving his father’s hand off his shoulder.

“You don’t get it, do you? I didn’t break up with Scott! He broke up with me!” Henry’s eyes widened and he was confused, but let Shawn finish. “ _I_ was the one who wanted the commitment, Henry! I was the one who thought that if I just tried hard enough, he would want to be with me as much I wanted to be with him, but he ended it! Said I was just his trial run…” The anger in his voice lessened. “I told you that I was the one who ended it because I didn’t want you to know the truth. That he dumped _me._ ”

He ran a hand through his hair and glared at the carpet.

“Being your son is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, dad.” Back to calling him dad. “It was just easier to let you down because your damn expectations were so high, so I never tried to do anything. I mean,” he added mockingly, “What’s the point of trying when you know that all your dad is going to say is that you didn’t try hard enough, you know?”

He was looking him in the eye now.

“I care for Carlton.” First name, not last name, Henry noted. “Hell, I think I could very easily fall in love with him. He has this dedication to his job and this loyalty in him that is just so amazing and beyond anything that I’ve ever seen, but I don’t have…”

His voice trailed off, as if he only just remembered he was talking to his father.

“Never mind. You’re right,” he said all too lightly. “Lassi and I are a horrible match. He’s all guns, justice, and jail time, and I’m smoothies, water balloons, and fun times. It’d never work.”

And with that he walked out as abruptly as he’d shown up, leaving Henry more confused than before. What the hell had just happened? In a matter of seconds, Shawn had gone through every emotion, from besotted to bitter to angry, and then to resigned. Had he just convinced Shawn to end things with Lassiter?

For the first time, Henry was unsure if he’d given his son the right advice.

He picked up his hand towel from the chair and walked back into the kitchen, where his spaghetti was over-boiling. He turned off the stove and threw the towel over the soaked counter, and thought to himself, _Damn. I hope I did the right thing._

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

The next day, Shawn still felt confused after talking with Henry, not sure if he should take his advice or not. He was hopelessly head over heels for Lassiter, he was fairly certain on that point, but he knew that his illness was going to be a problem. Why even bother if he was simply going to die in a few months? Why bother taking the risk that he didn’t feel as strongly as Shawn did?

As he slipped into Lassiter’s apartment, duffel bag in hand, he put the spare key on the table and headed for the bedroom, determined to clear out his few things from the bottom drawer.

His dad was right.

Not about the commitment part, of course, but about everything else. Shawn had never had a relationship past five months. Of course, he only had a bit longer than that, but Shawn knew that it was unfair to do that to Lassi. It was completely selfish and unfair. Yes, the time that he would have with him just might be the happiest of his life, but it would crush the detective. There were feelings, of course, but to take that away from Lassiter after just a few short months…it was cruel.

Better to have never loved, then for him to love him and lose him. Yes. It was better.

He pulled open the drawer, prepared to simply shove his clothes into the bag…but paused. Instead of a wrinkled and jumbled mess, the way he normally kept them, they had been folded neatly and tucked firmly one on top of the other, his boxers and socks to the side, all in an almost military-lined way.

Carlton.

Shawn’s fingers lingered on his shirt for a moment, a thought persisting in the back of his mind saying, _Can you really do this to him? Just…walk out?_ The voice sounded remarkably like Juliet’s. He brushed it off and began to put his shirts into his bag, as another voice in the back of his head, which sounded like his father’s, said, _You have to do this. It’s better for him and you know it._

Slightly angry at himself, but feeling that he had no other choice, he finished packing his bag and then grabbed his toothbrush from the bathroom. Yes, he even had a toothbrush at his place. Damn, it had only been a little more than a week, but he was completely comfortable in the intrusive closeness of their relationship. That should have been a red-flag to him right from the start. They were moving too fast, all at Shawn’s pace, and he knew that Lassiter must be resenting it by now. He was a fiercely private man, and having someone in his home must have been driving him crazy.

Yes. This was the right decision.

Trying not to think about it, he brushed it off and threw his bag over his shoulder, leaving the apartment as quickly as he could. Shawn knew that Lassiter wouldn’t be home until late, so he had plenty of time to put some distance between him and Santa Barbara.

Just as he threw his bag over the back of his bike, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

“Yo, you’ve reached Shawn Spencer, psychic extraordinaire, how may--”

“Spencer.”

It was Lassiter. Shit. He mentally scrambled, trying to figure out why his boyfriend sounded pissed and what he was going to say.

“Uh…hey, Lass. Why’re you calling me?”

Lassiter’s voice was hard as he simply said one word.

“Lunch.”

Oh, shit, again. He’d completely forgotten about their lunch date. Backpedaling, trying to figure out how to fix it, because he _knew_ that he had royally screwed up, he blurted out, “Something came up. I’m sorry I forgot to call. Let me make it up to you. Dinner, tonight. Around seven?”

It went quiet and Shawn tensed, waiting for the chewing out that he was about to receive…but it never came.

Instead, Lassiter sounded calm and together as he replied, “That should be fine. Where?”

The fake psychic went through a list of places in his head. Nearly all of them were fast food, or diners that Lassi wouldn’t set foot in for anything. He went through the list of take-out menus on Lassiter’s fridge in his mind, but they, too, were all too lowbrow. He needed to make it nice, or else it would seem like he wasn’t trying. Of course, he _was_ about to leave town, so why was he even trying? Shawn knew why. Because he knew that he couldn’t just walk away without giving Lassiter an explanation. He deserved that much.

He then suddenly remembered that Lassiter had a weakness for Thai food. _Good_ Thai food. Blue Moon Bar  & Grill. Hard to get into, but he knew the owner.

“I’ll pick you up,” Shawn said, improvising at the last second. “It’s, uh, a surprise.”

“Spencer…”

He could hear the warning tone in his voice, so Shawn quickly added, “It’s a good surprise, Lassi. I promise no shenanigans…unless, that’s what you’re looking for.”

Shawn didn’t have to see him to know that he was rolling his eyes, as Lassiter responded with, “So help me, Spencer, if you take me to the Taco Truck, I swear that I will never trust you again. After the time you dragged me to Pippin’s Pies, you’ve been on a short leash, and if you break it, I’ll--”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Never trust me again. Lighten up, Lassi-lips. I swear, Scout’s honor, that you’ll love it.”

“You weren’t a Scout.”

“You can blame my father for that. I know that I wanted nothing more than to learn to navigate by the second star to the left.”

“It’s the north star.”

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

Shawn was grinning at this point, pleased that their usual banter was back, and he could see Lassi gritting his teeth and tightening his jaw in his head. His other hand, which had been tight around the strap of his bag, loosened, and he made the decision that he would put his bag back. Why did he want to leave in the first place?

“Spencer,” Lassiter said in a less-harsh tone, reminding Shawn that he was at work. If he’d been alone, he would have used his first name. “Are you doing okay? I mean,” the detective hastily added in a low voice, “How are your…symptoms? Are they still manageable?”

Shawn’s hand tightened once more on the strap, his good mood gone. Oh, right. _That_ was why.

“I’m fine,” he said, brushing him off. “See you at seven.”

“Spenc--”

He hung up.

Shawn’s stomach rolled, and he felt sick. He felt stuck with an impossible situation. He couldn’t lead Lassiter on like this…of course, the man actually seemed to equally annoyed by and overly fond of his company, which made him even more confused. He suddenly had a thought. Juliet. She could help.

He went to get back on his bike, but then hesitated as he looked at his bag. He looked at it for a moment longer, and then grabbed it off the back, heading back up to Lassiter’s apartment, where he picked the lock, as he’d left the key on the table, fully intending to not come back. The fake psychic tossed the bag onto the couch and then headed back to his bike. Juliet just might still be on her lunch break, and even if she wasn’t, he was certain that he could convince her to take a few minutes from her job to talk with him about Lassiter. Carlton.

God, he wasn’t sure which he was to him. He would always be Lassi, but in those intimate moments, the few that they’d shared, he was Carlton.

Shaking his head, he got onto his bike and sped over to the precinct. Juliet would know what to do.

He strode into the station, flashing a winning smile in McNabb’s direction when he waved to him, and happily noted to himself that Lassiter was nowhere to be found. Still on his lunch, then. Good. He glanced around, and let out an internal sigh of relief when he saw the female detective he was looking for sitting at a table in the break room.

“Jules! How’s my ray of sunshine, today?”

She looked up from the file she was skimming that sat in front of her salad, and she smiled.

“Hey, Shawn! What brings you by? I thought you had lunch with Lassiter, today?”

Her look turned accusatory, and the fake psychic shrugged it off, saying, “Yeah, I did, but I forgot, so I’m making it up to him by taking him out to dinner, tonight.”

Her eyes lit up at that and she said, “Ooh, dinner? That’s a first for you two, isn’t it? Where are you taking him?”

He threw her a wide grin and sat down across from her, as he replied, “Blue Moon Bar & Grill. He loves Thai, so I thought I’d surprise him. What do you think? Good idea? Too bold? Too forward? You’re right, it’s too much of a risk, too romantic. Maybe I should just order in Chinese and pull up a Tarantino film.”

Juliet laughed and shook her head.

“No, the first one sounds great. Carlton will love it. But, I have to ask…how the hell are you going to get a seat there? Don’t you have to make a reservation, like, six months in advance?”

Shawn grinned.

“Not when you’re friends with the owner, who owes you a few favors.”

She grinned back at him, and then reached across and put her hand over his and said, “You know, just so you know, I think it’s great. What you and Carlton have? I mean, at first it was a little weird,” she added, tilting her head, “But you two actually make a lot of sense, and I’ve never seen him so…relaxed.” Shawn felt a twinge of guilt. “The fact that you’re taking him to dinner means that you’re stepping it up a little, taking things more seriously, and I love that you’re making that effort.”

Gee, just great. Trying to keep her from getting her hopes up too high, he said, “Jules…it’s harder than it looks.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Well, duh, Shawn. I mean, this is _Lassiter_ we’re talking about. He’s a complete one-eighty from you, but I think you’ve turned him a bit.” Shawn snorted in disbelief, but she continued. “I mean it, Shawn. I don’t what it is, but when he’s around you, he’s…well, it’s like seeing who he could be without the job, and it’s nice. It’s nice to see him with someone who _gets_ how much he loves his job and doesn’t force him to choose, you know?”

Her words gave Shawn pause, and he thought about what she was saying. She had a point…and that’s what bothered him. He didn’t want reasons to _stay_. He needed reasons to leave. He needed a reason to spare Lassiter the pain of falling for him when he had no time to give him. No future. Shit. This sucked.

After a moment, he said, “Thanks, Jules.”

She smiled.

“No problem, Shawn.”

He moved as if to stand, but then stopped and sat back down and gripped her hand and said, “Jules...what if…well, let’s say there are two birds. And, one of the birds knew that they weren’t going to be around all that long. Like, one of them was a sparrow who was around all year, but the other one was a bluebird that had to migrate for the winter. If he stayed, it would be great! They could fly around and have an amazing time all winter, playing games and singing and having a grand ‘ol birdie time, but the bluebird would end up freezing if he stayed, because bluebirds have to migrate, you know? It’s in their nature. But what if the sparrow and the bluebird had feelings for each other and--”

Juliet grabbed his hand, which was still resting on top of hers, and she said, “Shawn, you’re babbling. What are you talking about? Are you talking about…you and Lassiter?”

The fake psychic looked at her, not sure of what to say, his mouth opening and closing a few times, before finally closing.

She continued to stare at him, a concerned look on her face.

“Shawn…is…is something wrong?”

Shaking his head, he stood and said, “Everything’s fine, Jules. I, uh, better leave before Lassi gets here. Don’t want him to think I’m two-timing him, after all.” With that, he turned and escaped as quickly as he could without drawing too much attention.

As he drove back to his laundromat apartment, he was more than confused. Goddammit. Why couldn’t he just have simple straight forward relationships? Especially now. Why had he ever brought Lassiter in on his secret? Oh, right. Because he couldn’t let anyone know that he was sick. That’s why.

The instant he got off his bike, he felt his resolve weakening. He focused his thoughts, but found it hard as his finger fumbled with his keys, and he could tell that he was losing feeling in his wrist. Less than adeptly, he thumbed the right key and unlocked his door, shoving it closed behind him with his elbow, the tingling in his wrist turning into a violent pain that had him gasping. Shawn stumbled to his bedroom and pulled the bottle from the second drawer with one hand, tossing back two pills, savoring the bitter taste of the powder as he ground them between his back teeth.

He collapsed on his bed, fully dressed, and found himself silently weeping as the pain shot up from his wrist to his shoulder, effectively immobilizing his arm.

And then…he felt nothing. Literally, nothing. Trying not to panic, he took a few deep breaths, reminding himself that it always passed. He would be fine. As he tried to coach himself through the lack of feeling, the voice in his head was familiar as it said, _Just breathe. Breathe. You can do it, Shawn. Breathe._ It was Carlton’s voice. God, it was _Carlton’s_ voice.

As if he were really there, Shawn found himself relaxing. He closed his eyes.

_It’ll pass, you idiot. It always does._

The fake psychic laughed to himself, a wet chuckle that broke through his panic, and he came to a calm realization in that moment.

He was in love with Carlton Lassiter.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Shawn was nervous as he pulled on his only nice suit and tie. He looked in the mirror, making sure his black tie was straight in its Windsor knot. He smoothed back his hair and gave himself a half-hearted smile as he reached down and straightened his black suit coat. He couldn’t find a white dress shirt, so he wore a light blue one, instead.

He instinctively reached for the keys to his bike, but then stopped…and then grabbed them before he changed his mind. What the hell. He wanted to show Lassi a good time, so he was going to take advantage of it and have him cling to him on the back of his bike. Besides, the Blue Moon Bar & Grill wasn’t all that far from the station. Shawn grinned to himself as he thought of what Lassi’s reaction was going to be when he saw Shawn pull up on his motorcycle. Oh, he’d say no, of course, but the psychic was certain that he could convince him otherwise.

Feeling slightly smug, he grabbed his leather coat, as well as an extra one that was a bit large on him, and would fit Lassiter perfectly.

As he pulled up to the station, he smiled. He wasn’t leaving, so he felt good about dinner. Hell, he was feeling _great_ about dinner, to be honest about it. Now that he knew that he would rather have the time with him, then not have it at all, that he would only be depriving both of them, he was borderline ecstatic.

He sauntered up the steps and walked into the bullpen, both jackets thrown over his arm. He saw Juliet at her desk, but noticed that Lassiter wasn’t at his.

“Hey, Jules, where’s Lassi?”

She pointed towards the back of the building, not looking up from her computer.

“Records room.”

With a bounce in his step, Shawn made his way to the records room, unable to contain his excitement. The instant he walked in, he saw Lassiter in the corner, a file folder opened on top of the metal filing cabinets, looking far too serious. He started to open his mouth, but then the head detective turned in his direction…and Shawn felt his mouth dry up at the sight.

His tie was gone, the top few buttons of his shirt undone, and his suit coat was tossed over another filing cabinet. His white sleeves were rolled up, emphasizing his strong forearms, and his shoulder holster was somehow looking hotter than ever…and his hair was ruffled, spiking up in random places from where the fake psychic was certain that he’d been running his hands thoughtlessly through his hair. Shawn stared, his eyes running up and down the man’s lean form, appreciating his state of disarray. Good god, thank god Lassi only had eyes for him, because there was no way he was willing to share him in this state.

“Spencer? What are you doing here?”

Taking a moment to catch his breath, Shawn swallowed and licked his lips before saying, “Dinner. I, uh, promised, after all. Are you, uh…coming?”

Lassiter’s eyes went wide and he glanced down at his watch and silently cursed.

“Crap, I didn’t realize how late it was. Uh…give me a minute. I’m not exactly presentable,” he said, reaching for his sleeves to roll them down, but Shawn stopped him, and pushed into his personal space, pressing him up against one of the cabinets, ignoring how it moved behind them.

“Oh, you’re presentable, alright,” Shawn murmured into the scant inches of air between them. “I’d like to see this presented on a platter in front of me every day, if you don’t mind, detective.”

Looking more than a little taken off guard, Lassiter froze, no longer trying to back away from him, and then seemed to pick up on Shawn’s tone, as he arched an eyebrow and looked down at him and said, in a low, almost threatening voice, “Is that right, Spencer?”

Shawn nodded, licking his lips once more, hoping the man got the message.

Instead of getting the message, Carlton looked him over once more and said, “You’re wearing a suit.”

The fake psychic grinned and nodded, replying with, “Yep. I do own one. I know, a huge shocker, but I had to have _some_ thing when it came to picking up girls and guys at weddings and funerals! You would not _believe_ how many people fall for the ‘my-date-stood-me-up’ routine, or the ‘we-never-reconciled-before-the-end’ routine. I mean, you would think that after going to a few too many, you would meet some repeats, but it just amazes me how many people die and get married every day!”

He kept on rambling, hoping Lassiter would shut him up in the same way that he had the last time Shawn had rambled…

And he did.

He leaned into Shawn, but not before the fake psychic noticed his quick glance towards the door, to make sure no one was looking, and then kissed him. Shawn was expecting a chaste kiss, nothing more, so he was pleasantly shocked when a warm tongue slipped between his teeth and proceeded to erase all thought from his head.

God. Damn.

Not bothering to fight the rush of heat that spread through him, he shoved Carlton up against the file cabinet, ignoring the sound of it shaking, and groaned softly into the kiss.

He felt altogether too good…and Shawn was thinking about skipping dinner entirely. Suddenly, the detective turned the tables on him and pushed _him_ up against the cabinet, his hands coming down on either side of him, and the younger man felt like he’d been cornered. And he loved it. His chest and hips pressed into Lassiter’s, and he let out another muffled moan as he felt something hard against his thigh that wasn’t his own. That was no gun in his pocket, that was for sure.

Carlton bit his lower lip and Shawn felt a jolt to his groin at the pleasurable pain and also felt his knees turn to jelly. Not the firm kind, but the weak kind that he’d tried to make one crazy weekend on his hotplate and had come out all watery. He was falling apart.

They pulled back at roughly the same time and the fake psychic rested his forehead on Lassiter’s shoulder and breathed out, “Carlton…”

But before the head detective could respond, they both turned when they heard a familiar (and angry) voice, say, “Detective Lassiter?”

The Chief. Shit.

Lassiter pulled away from Shawn as if he’d been slapped and hastily reached for his sport coat, not pulling it on, but using it as a discreet shield for his lower half. Shawn followed suit, unsure of how to react. He had no idea how the chief would react. Jules knew, as did Gus and his father, but the Chief was an entirely different matter.

Lassiter finally managed to get out after an awkward silence, “Evening, Chief.”

She stared at both of them, her eyes hard.

“Evening Head Detective. Mr. Spencer.” She took a step forward, and it took all of Shawn’s effort to not take a step back. “Well, even though I would like to say that I am surprised, I honestly can’t.” Shawn looked at her in surprise, and then was even more shocked when she added, “I’m guessing that this has been going on for a while now, considering…ah…what I’ve just witnessed.”

Lassiter looked down at his shoes.

“I’m sorry, Chief. It won’t happen again.”

“It better not,” she snapped back, glaring at both of them. “You two are nightmares on your own and I don’t want to know what kind of trouble you’re getting into now. So, ground rules. Making out? Do it off the clock.” Shawn protested immediately, saying, “Technically, Lassi wasn’t on the--” and she cut him off. “And _away from here._ ”

He nodded and looked down at his own shoes, biting his tongue to keep himself from saying anything that he might regret. Well, he wouldn’t _regret_ it, but he knew that anything he might say would be turned against them, so he remained silent. After an even longer awkward silence, she stepped back and gave both of them a look, a hint of an amused smile around the corner of her mouth, as if she was trying to keep from laughing.

Just as she left, she said, “Oh, and Mr. Spencer?”

“Yes, Chief?”

She smiled.

“I like the suit.”

She walked out, leaving them alone. Slightly nervous, Shawn looked up at Lassiter, fully expecting him to yell and call the dinner off…but, instead, Lassiter looked over at him and said, “The suit does look nice on you, Spencer.”

He grinned.

“Well, I _do_ clean up rather well…just like a certain detective, I might add.”

A faint flush appeared on the older man’s cheeks, and Shawn smiled, pleased that he was able to garner such a reaction. After a moment, Lassiter pulled on his suit coat, and then looked confused as Shawn offered him one of the leather coats on his arm.

“Uh, Spencer...are we…?”

“Taking Falkor to dinner? Why, yes. Yes, we are, Lassi.”

His eyebrow shot up at that, and Shawn mentally counted to three, and the detective didn’t fail him as he blurted out, in a vehement tone, “I am _not_ riding your motorcycle, Shawn! That thing is a death trap! Do you have any idea how many fatal accidents involve motorcycles? Motorcycles are--”

“Twenty-seven times more likely to end in fatalities, yes, I know this, I’ve heard it from my father nearly every day since I _bought_ the damn thing, Lassi-face. I don’t need you reminding me. Perfect memory, remember?” he said, pointing to his head. “Besides,” he added, looking smug and taking a step towards him. “You’ve seen how perfect my recall is. It’s an asset when I’m on the bike and means that I am much less likely to get in an accident since nine times out of ten, accidents involve distracted driving. You know _I’m_ not distracted.”

Lassiter snorted, and Shawn rolled his eyes, his voice taking on a whining tone.

“Oh, c’mon, Lass! The restaurant is a whopping total of five minutes away! For me? Please?”

He offered him the coat a second time…and Lassiter reluctantly grabbed the jacket, throwing it on over his shoulders. Spencer sighed when he saw how perfectly it fit him. God, he looked _damn_ good in leather. Maybe he could convince him to wear it out on other occasions.

Brushing the thought to the side, Shawn said, “Now, c’mon, gorgeous,” and slapped the head detective on the ass on the way out of the records room, catching Lassiter flushing red a second time. Shawn smirked to himself. Red was a good look on him.

They walked through the station quickly, ignoring the looks sent in their direction, and headed straight out to Shawn’s bike, where he slipped onto the seat and then tossed a quick look back at Lassiter as he picked up his helmet off of the handlebars and pulled out his gloves. He looked down as he tugged them on, not noticing the dilation of Carlton’s eyes as he did. When he looked back up, the head detective was glaring at him, but with some amusement in his eyes.

“You named your bike after a flying rodent, Spencer?”

“It’s Shawn, Carlton,” he said pointedly. “And Falkor is not a rodent, he is a majestic beast that is hithertofore an unknown combination of lizard, bear, and dog.”

“Hithertofore isn’t a word, Shawn.”

Shawn grinned.

“Just get on the damn bike, Carlton,” he shot back, handing him the helmet.

He grabbed the helmet, just as Shawn had asked, and then looked confused as he said, “Wait, don’t you need this, Shawn?”

The younger man shook his head and replied, “Oh, no. Don’t you try and guilt me into wearing it, dude. You’re the passenger, here, and it’s my right as the driver to keep you safe. Besides, you can arrest me later for breaking the law,” he added, sending him a flirtatious smile. “After dessert, perhaps? I’m fine with being cuffed.”

Instead of flushing, like he’d expected him to, Carlton smirked and said, “Oh, I know you are,” and then put on the helmet and got onto the seat behind him, his body pressing firmly against his.

Shawn flushed this time, and then adjusted himself on the seat of the bike.

Oh, this was going to be one uncomfortable five-minute trip.

* * *

The trip _was_ only five minutes, but they were the longest five minutes of Carlton’s life. When Shawn had shown up in his suit, his control had been shot, which was why he’d pretty much jumped him in the records room, unable to keep his hands off the younger man. Being caught by the Chief had been one of the most humiliating moments in his life. Shawn, of course, hadn’t been affected, but the detective had the faint inkling that he’d been in much more compromising positions in the past.

Clinging to his back on the motorcycle, however, was a sweet torture for both of them. At least, Lassiter knew it had been for him. The vibrations of the bike combined with the feel of Shawn’s body pressed up against his own, had caused him to have a…well, a reaction.

He silently hoped Shawn didn’t notice, but at the same time, was turned on by the idea that he _did_ notice.

Damn. Their relationship was so strange.

The instant they pulled up in front of the restaurant, however, Lassiter felt a rush of affection. How did Spencer know that Thai was his favorite? Of course, as soon as he thought it he mentally snorted and reminded himself, _It’s Spencer. He sees and remembers_ every _thing._

He got off the bike and handed the helmet back to Spencer, and was amused when he subtly threatened the valet with bodily harm if anything happened to his motorcycle. Falkor. Seriously, what kind of name was that for a bike?

Spencer turned back to him and threw him a faint, almost smile.

“So…dinner?”

Lassiter gave him a smug look in reply.

“Are you paying?”

Spencer shook his head and quipped back, “If I do, Gus will be pissed. Just because I know the owner doesn’t mean I’m getting any discounts, and there’s only so many times I can steal Gus’s card before he retaliates in some creative way. Last time, he put laxative in my pineapple smoothie.” He reached up and patted him on the shoulder. “You’ve got this one, Lassi-pants. I just picked the place. It seems only fair that you pay.”

At this, the detective was slightly annoyed, but he covered it as they hung up their coats and were escorted to their table, a booth in the back corner. They may have been practically living together, but that didn’t mean that Carlton was perfectly okay with all of his habits. He was still Shawn Spencer, after all. Fake psychic extraordinaire, and a regular pain in his ass. However, he was _his_ pain in the ass and no one else’s, and he was planning on keeping it that way.

As soon as they sat down, Spencer ordered them both an appetizer, and Lassiter didn’t question how the younger man knew that chicken satay was one of his favorites.

They were silent for a long while, until Shawn broke it by saying, “So, Lassi. Uh…Carlton. I was wondering something. About, uh…us.” Oh. This was not a conversation that Lassiter was expecting, least of all from Spencer. “I was wondering,” he continued, “If you were really okay with me having my stuff, you know, at your place.”

Lassiter snorted.

“If I didn’t, I would have thrown you out by now, Shawn.”

Shawn smiled at that, and then added, “Okay, good, that’s what I figured. I just…I sort of…talked to my dad, and he pointed out a few things to me that I hadn’t quite realized before. Like…how I’ve never taken anything very seriously. Not even my work.”

Lassiter said nothing, unsure of what to say. He didn’t know where Shawn was going with it, so he instead waited for him to say something that he could respond to.

“The thing is, Lassi…Carlton,” he amended. “I like you a lot.”

“I like you, too.”

At that, Shawn let out a sound of disbelief and said, “You know, I’m still trying to wrap my head around that. But, since you seemed to definitely be showing it earlier…” He leered. “…I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say what I really mean. I think I’m i--”

He was cut off as their appetizer arrived. As soon as their server had left, Lassiter prompted him, “You think you’re what?”

Shawn shook his head.

“Never mind. Not important. Let’s enjoy dinner.”

He dug into the chicken satay, leaving Carlton feeling like there was something more to be said, but the conversation managed to never come up during the rest of their meal. They talked about everything else; movies, cases, music, and they even swapped a few stories about Henry that had both of them laughing and grinning like idiots…but not once did the topic of feelings come up.

They drove back to the precinct, where Lassiter picked up his car, and then went back to his place.

As they got ready for bed, Lassiter thought back to dinner, and realized that Shawn had barely eaten a thing, something completely out of character for him. In fact, instead of grabbing a pair of his own pajama pants, he grabbed a pair of Carlton’s, and he saw that they actually fit him. Shawn had always been two sizes larger than him…shit. He was hiding stuff from him, again. Right before Shawn could roll over and ignore him for the night, the older man took a chance and grabbed his arm.

“Spencer. Shawn.”

The fake psychic gave him an innocent look, and Lassiter held back a growl. He hated it when he tried to pull this crap.

“You’re not eating,” he said, glaring at him.

“I don’t know what you’re--”

“Cut the crap, Shawn. It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

He nodded.

“Yeah.”

Not needing to hear anymore, he pulled the younger man to his side and wrapped himself around his back, and whispered into his ear, “You better not be giving up, Spencer. You’re stronger than this thing and you know it. Just…keep fighting, alright?”

Spencer practically snuggled into him, and then nodded and said in a voice barely above a whisper, “Of course, Lassi. You know I will.”

And they went to sleep.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Over the next two weeks, Shawn found himself practically moved in. He had started having nightmares, which was actually normal for him this time of year, as it was close to the anniversary of the Yin case. He always got nightmares about that. The first time he’d woken Carlton up with his screaming, the detective had pulled his gun on him. The next night, however, he’d simply shaken him awake and let Spencer cling to him, both of them ignoring the tear stains on Lassiter’s shirt.

They were getting comfortable together, and the younger man had decided that he would ask the big question: if he could move in.

However, before he asked, he was making sure that Lassiter could put up with him in nearly every scenario. Because the older man knew about Shawn’s abilities, Shawn had been teaching him and showing him the techniques that his father had used on him over the years, not just to help, but to try and explain what it was like for him.

Like at lunch today.

“Okay, Lassi,” said Shawn, looking him straight in the eye. “Close your eyes.”

Carlton gave him a look, arching an eyebrow, but did as he asked and closed his eyes, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Shawn did the same, knowing he would know if Lassiter was wrong.

“Now. How many hats are in the room?”

The detective hesitated for a moment, and Shawn could practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he started to speak.

“Blue Braves ball cap at the bar, black sunhat on the old woman at the side table, white ball cap on the teenager in the back corner booth.” He paused, and the fake psychic didn’t have to look to know that he was short by two. He patiently waited, though, giving Carlton the benefit of the doubt. “…Black knit cap on the other teenager and a...a…”

“C’mon, Carlton,” he gently prompted. “I know you know it.”

“Spencer…”

“You _know_ it.”

He paused, but then finally said, “A green trucker hat?”

Shawn grinned like an idiot and opened his eyes, and reached across and tapped Lassiter on the arm, at which he opened his eyes and saw Shawn smiling at him, obviously pleased with how well he’d done. He licked his lips and gave his boyfriend’s arm a squeeze and said, “Well, done, Lassi. You’re getting good.”

At that, Lassiter rolled his eyes, trying not to show how pleased he was at the compliment. No matter what Shawn said, he knew that he would never be as good as him. He didn’t have perfect recall, but the methods that he’d been showing him had actually been helping him. Just two days before, he’d managed to close a case on his own without asking for the fake psychic’s help. He wouldn’t admit it, but the techniques that Spencer was teaching him were actually working.

He reached for the bread rolls in the middle of the table and said, “I’m still not at your level.”

“And you never will be, Lassi-pants,” he popped back at him. “I have perfect recall remember? You just have a brilliantly deductive mind. Which, by the way, is an _incredible_ turn-on.”

Lassiter glared at him, even though he was secretly flattered by the younger man’s words. He took a bite of the roll, and then nearly choked on it when Spencer said, “Hey, by the way, when can I actually move into your apartment?”

After he’d finished choking, he took a sip of water and then managed to rasp out, “Move in?”

Shawn was surprised at hearing his boyfriend’s surprise, so he repeated himself.

“Yes, move in. Geez, you’re acting like I just said if a monkey could, uh, well, do…well…something weird,” he fumbled, unable to come up with a decent comparison. “I mean,” he added, reaching for the salt shaker, gesturing with it. “I’ve got a drawer and a toothbrush, already. I don’t spend _any_ time back at my pace, any more. I’m either at the Psych office, or I’m with you; at the precinct or your apartment.”

Lassiter was quiet, and took the time to wipe his mouth with a napkin.

After a moment, he said, “You have a point…”

“Gee, you think?”

“But,” the detective countered, barely pausing a beat, “It might give people the wrong idea.”

At this, Shawn glared at him, more than a little angry from what he was hearing. Lassi was worried about what people thought? Seriously? Spencer tightened his jaw and gritted his teeth, and attempted to hold his tongue, but it was less than successful, as a moment later he blurted out, “Give people the wrong _idea?_ Lassi, in case you haven’t noticed, _everyone_ knows we’re involved! Moving in wouldn’t exactly shock them into comas, you know!”

Lassiter looked around the diner, as if afraid someone would overhear them, and shook his head.

“Still, Spencer.” Great. Back to the last name. “It’s a big step, and considering your…condition…people might ask questions.”

At this, the fake psychic bristled, and his tone went bitterly sarcastic as he replied with, “Oh, right. People. Can’t forget about “people”, because that’s _always_ the issue. What “people” think.” Lassiter rolled his eyes, but Shawn continued, on a roll. “I mean, Juliet supports us and Gus is okay with it. The Chief seems to be alright with it as long we keep it out of the precinct, and, hey, people at the station know and they’re pretty damn supportive. Hell, my _dad_ is actually not _against_ it, which I think is a miracle in and of itself! They’re the only “people” we know who _matter_ , Carlton! Why is it such a big freakin’ deal?”

The older man glared at him from across the table, and then carefully put down his napkin and said, “And, of these “people”, Shawn…” First name. But still not good. “…how many of them know about your illness?”

Spencer’s eyes dropped to the table, unable to take the scrutiny of his gaze, and he fiddled the salt shaker between his hands for a moment before replying…

“None.”

“That’s right.” Lassiter’s hand was suddenly on his wrist, stilling his movements, and he looked up. He had been expecting a stern look, but instead met an unexpected sight of an almost understanding look, and Lassiter said as he withdrew his hand, “I’m just worried, Shawn. I’m worried that you’ll try to use our relationship to hide from them.”

Shawn slowly smiled.

“You just called it a relationship.”

Lassiter looked down, picking at the roll in front of him, not meeting his eye, but the fake psychic knew the truth. That Lassiter _did_ care…and that, apparently, he felt the same way about their situation that he did. That it was a relationship, and not just convenient circumstances.

“Shut up,” he muttered, but Shawn’s grin only grew wider. He was being rude, which meant that he meant it.

He lowered the smile, unable to keep it completely from his face.

He had one hell of a boyfriend.

* * *

Gus stared at his best friend in shock as he packed up his things, leaving behind anything that wouldn’t fit into his large duffel bag.

“You’re moving in with _Lassiter?_ ”

Shawn let out a sigh and said as he continued to pack, “How many times do I have to say it Gus? I am practically _living_ over there, anyway, so it’s really not that big of a deal. I mean,” he added as he threw in his pineapple deluxe-moisturizing shampoo, “He actually _puts up_ with me, and do you have any idea how much of a miracle that is? He has the patience of a saint Bernard.”

“It’s the patience of a saint, Shawn.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve heard it both ways.”

Guster just looked on in absolute disbelief as Shawn packed up his laptop and haphazardly threw the cords on top before shoving in two bags of beef jerky next to it. This couldn’t be happening. Lassiter and Shawn had only been dating for…well, not that long.

Before he could open his mouth, however, Spencer senior came in through the front door and yelled, “You’re _moving in_ with Lassiter?”

“That’s what _I_ said,” blurted out Gus. “Only, with the emphasis on Lassiter, and not the moving in part. But your way works, too.”

Shawn looked furious.

“You called Henry?!”

“You’re moving in with a man who has threatened to shoot you on multiple occasions, Shawn! Of course I called your dad!”

Mr. Spencer ignored them, walking past Gus and grabbing the bag from off the bed, pulling it out of Shawn’s reach, his eyes blazing and his jaw clenched. Shawn, getting irritated, attempted to grab for it, but Mr. Spencer stepped back, not letting him get close to it, and then said, in a much lower but no less threatening tone, “You’ve only been dating him for a few weeks, Shawn. I already told you that I didn’t think it was the best idea, but somehow you’ve managed to prove me wrong so far…but this? You’ll be shot by the end of the week, if not in the first day!”

At this, Shawn groaned and snipped, “Will you two stop it? I am a freaking adult, and I don’t need to be told what I can and cannot do with my own love life, okay?!” He reached out once more and snagged the strap from his dad’s hand and threw the bag back on the bed and said, “Look, I know you both care, but I don’t have time to deal with this! He told me to move in before he got home, so that’s what I’m doing.”

They were both silent, but then Gus thought back to what Shawn had said earlier…and his eyes widened.

“Wait…you said you were practically _already_ living over there. What do you mean by that?”

Shawn turned back towards them, his face remarkably similar to Henry’s a few moments earlier.

“It means like a drawer-and-a-toothbrush-over-at-his-place-and-cooking-him-breakfast-almost-every-morning kind of thing. Look,” he added, putting his hands up in the air, “I know it seems too soon, but, believe it or not, he’s the one who’s actually insisting on this!”

Okay, so one white lie made its way through, but Shawn was certain that Lassi wouldn’t mind. Not that he would ever know, of course, but he had to say something to get the two of them off his back. He couldn’t exactly tell them that the reason why he was moving in was to make the transition of his death easier on everyone, as well as the fact that he wanted access to hunky boyfriend at all hours so he could finally have his wicked way with him.

His father glared, and Shawn ignored it.

He grabbed his pineapple pillow and shoved it inside the bag, which was getting full very quickly. He reached for the second drawer on his dresser…and then he stopped. He couldn’t go for his pills in front of them. They would know something was wrong. Quickly, he made it look as if he’d changed his mind and reached for the third drawer, grabbing a random shirt and throwing it into the bag.

“Uh, Shawn…” _Dammit, Gus_ , Shawn silently cursed. “I know you and, uh, Lassiter have feelings for each other, but don’t you think that, well, you should take your time? I mean, both of you have plenty of time, and, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you two seem to really like each other and don’t you think moving things too quickly is going to ruin all of that?”

 _I don’t have_ any _time,_ Shawn said mentally, but aloud replied, “Gus, buddy, laxative-drink-spiker and drug-peddling friend, as much as I love you and agree with you on the fact that James Spader was a total babe in Stargate…”

“You know I hate that movie, Shawn. It totally ruined the Stargate universe.”

“Beside the point, man. The thing is, what Lassi and I have…it’s between him and _me._ And no one else,” he added, sending a look in his father’s direction. “And it’s not like I’m going to be a kept woman, or anything. I’ll still be a part of Psych, and helping to pay for things like rent, food, and all that good stuff.”

They both looked at him, almost identical looks of incredulity on their faces. Oh, so that’s where Gus got his patented “you’re joking, right?” look. Shawn let out another exasperated sigh.

“God, you two are impossible! The _one_ time I’m taking responsibility for a relationship, the _one_ time I decide to make what actually _feels_ like the right decision, and I get nothing but unsolicited grief from the two people who I thought would _actually_ support me!” They both pulled back slightly at that, their offensive postures lessening. The fake psychic just stared at them for a moment, and then added, “Look, I get that you both think I’m crazy, hell, even I think I might be a little bit crazy, but you know what? I love him and you just can’t--”

“Hold up,” his dad interrupted, raising his hands. “Did you just say what I think you just said?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m pretty sure he did because I think I heard it, too, Mr. Spencer.”

“The “l” word.”

Gus nodded.

“Yep. The “l” word. Does this mean that we have to…?” Henry nodded, and the two of them suddenly leaned in and enveloped him from both sides, leaving Shawn very uncomfortable and very confused.

“Uh…dad…Gus…what are you doing?”

His dad was the first to pull back. Henry looked his son in the eye and said, “Son, I’ve been waiting to hear this since the beginning.” Shawn was confused, so he explained. “As long as I’ve known you, you have never said that about anyone that you’ve ever been in a relationship with. You’ve had plenty of variations, but never…you know…that one. You’ve used “like” a lot.”

“A lot, Shawn,” Gus emphasized.

“But you’ve never said that particular four-letter word before now.”

“So?”

Henry and Gus shared a look, and then Henry said, “Do you want to tell him, or should I do it?”

“I should do it, Mr. Spencer.” At that, the senior Spencer backed up a step, and let Gus explain. “You see, Shawn, whenever you’ve ever gotten close to the “l” word stage of any relationship that you’ve ever had in the past, you did what we have coined the “Shawn Amnesia Bolt”. It usually involves you letting the girl down gently, after which you disappear for a few months so that they forget you, you forget them, and then you act like the whole thing never happened. Amnesia all around, sort of thing. It’s not pretty, nor is it healthy.”

Henry nodded, and then added, “So, the fact that not only are you moving in with detective Lassiter, but also that you’re using the four-letter word that you’ve never once let yourself come close to…well, it tells us that this is real for you. That you’re actually becoming a real adult.”

At this, the younger Spencer rolled his eyes.

“Seriously, guys? Can’t you just punch me on the shoulder and say “good for you, man” the way that other friends and fathers do?”

Gus did as he asked and stepped up and hit his shoulder, and was about half-way through the phrase, when Shawn went, “Ow! Dude, you _know_ I bruise like a peach that’s been left out in the sun three days too long past the autumnal solstice!”

His best friend glared at him.

“It’s autumnal equinox and summer solstice, Shawn, and don’t you dare say that you’ve--”

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

Fuming, realizing that he wasn’t going to be taken seriously, Gus walked out, Henry close behind him. Just before he left however, his hand on the doorknob, he turned to his son and said, “Shawn…I’m proud of you. But…whatever you do now, don’t let him break your heart.”

And with that, he left.

Shawn stood there for a moment, contemplating the irony of his father’s words, and then reached for the second drawer and pulled out his bottle, tossing back two pills, trying to ignore the shooting pains that had been stabbing through his left arm during the entire confrontation. Don’t let Lassi break _his_ heart? More like the other way around. Shawn knew he would break the detective’s heart, but he was being selfish. He didn’t care, so long as he had some time with him.

That was all that mattered.

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Lassiter stormed home after a rough day at the precinct. Shawn had gotten on his nerves more than he was expecting on that particular case, and instead of getting a reprieve, he was going to be coming home to it. God, why the hell had he said yes to the younger man moving in? Oh, right. Because he was completely besotted with the bastard.

“Lassi! You’re home! I’m making us dinner,” Spencer said way too cheerfully as the detective walked through the door. “Hope you like chicken enchiladas.”

Lassiter growled under his breath and stalked past the kitchen to his bedroom; _their_ bedroom, now. He ripped off his tie and threw his coat on the chair in the corner, rubbing his fingers against his temple. He didn’t have the time or patience to deal with the younger man’s antics tonight, but it didn’t seem that he had a choice. He had wanted to simply order in some Chinese and collapse on the couch with some reruns of the Rifleman, but that didn’t look like it was going to be happening any time soon.

“Hey, Lassi-lips!” Shawn shouted back to him. “Do you want jalapeños on yours?”

Lassiter yelled back.

“No, Spencer. Just…extra cheese, okay?”

“Got it! Cheesy for you, spicy for me!”

The older man kicked off his shoes, for once not caring where they landed, and moved to undo the top few buttons on his shirt, and closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. He stood there drinking in the stillness and silence, and then unexpectedly felt warm hands on his shoulders, strong fingers kneading deep into the muscle between his neck and shoulder, and he let out an involuntary groan.

In a voice just above a whisper, Shawn muttered, “Sorry I was so rough on you today. I was just…you know…trying to sell it. I, uh, guess I took it a little too far?”

“Yeah, I would say grabbing my ass and grinding on my hip is taking it too far, Spencer,” he tersely replied.

“Sorry,” he said a second time, digging in his fingers just a bit more, and the detective let out another groan. God, he wanted to stay mad at him, he _really_ did, but when Shawn started working with his hands…well, it was physically impossible to hold anything against him. Deciding to let the fake psychic work out his penance, he collapsed face first on the bed, and was not disappointed when Shawn followed him down and proceeded to work his adept fingertips down his spine.

Fuck, that felt good.

He said nothing as Spencer straddled his legs and began to work in earnest to remove all of his tension. It was moments like these that always took Carlton off guard, and it took all of his effort to not turn around and throw Shawn against the mattress and simply have his way with him.

Instead, he let the fake psychic work, taking advantage of Shawn’s generous attitude.

“That feels good,” he muttered into the pillow, turning his head so that he could glance over his shoulder at the younger man.

“Well, I _was_ a masseur on a cruise ship for about four months,” Shawn replied, his fingers digging into a sensitive muscle, causing Carlton to flinch. “My instructor said I was a natural and that I should go into it professionally, but I’m not a big fan of the old and crinkly, so I decided to hoard my skills for better uses. Like…seducing my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?”

It was the first time that Carlton had heard Shawn refer to him that way out loud. Shawn’s fingers stilled for a moment before continuing, and he said, “I mean…I’ve moved in, so I would assume that we’re, you know, at that point of using “boyfriend” as a term, but if you’d prefer something else, like snookums or sugar bear or love monkey, I will admit I have a preference for being called--”

Carlton rolled over and sat up, grabbing Shawn’s wrists in his hands, cutting him off.

“Boyfriend is fine.”

Shawn gave him a look.

“Oh. Then…okay…”

They stared at each other a moment more, and the detective couldn’t take it any longer. Using his grip around the younger man’s wrists as leverage, he pulled him to him and pressed a kiss to his open mouth, unable to keep himself from taking shameless advantage of it. As they kissed, he turned them around, so that he was pressing Spencer into the mattress.

Spencer panted out when he pulled back, “Okay, now _this_ …this is what I’ve been hoping for. A little bit of appreciation…”

“Appreciation?” Carlton muttered against his skin as he trailed his lips downward, moving down his neck, breathing him in. “What kind of… _appreciation_ …do you prefer?”

Shawn gasped as he traced his tongue along his collarbone, the older detective relishing in finally being able to act on every deviant thought that came into his head during the most inopportune times of the day. Carlton smirked at the fact that he was able to render the usually babbling psychic speechless, and brought one hand down from the younger man’s wrists to Shawn’s hip and pulled him up into him, both of them groaning when their hips met, the sudden and unexpected sensations that they’d both been craving for far too long sparking through them.

“Shawn,” he breathed out. “I’ve never…shit, I don’t know how to say this…”

Spencer chuckled into his ear, finishing his sentence for him, saying, “Don’t worry, Lassi-face, I have. And, just so you know,” he added with another low laugh, “I’m a catcher and I _thoroughly_ enjoy being one, so not too much changes on your end, if you know what I’m saying.”

Lassiter tried not to blush. Considering their position and how intimate they were becoming, he had no reason to react that way, but he couldn’t help it. He was embarrassed as hell for no other reason than the fact that hadn't been with a guy since college, and back then Carlton had been on the 'receiving' end, so to speak, and Shawn had just told him that he’d, well, _been_ with a man before...and that he was a most definite bottom. He hesitated for a moment, but then decided that waiting would make him doubt himself further, so he simply followed what he was feeling, and pressed the younger man into the mattress as he ravished his neck.

Shawn made an adorable squeaking sound and he couldn’t help but stop and let out a small laugh.

“You ticklish?”

“If I say no, you’ll just do it again to prove your point, so I concede and say yes,” he said in a rush, his voice breathless. “Now, can we move on past the pleasantries and move on to the _other_ pleasantries?”

Carlton chuckled a second time, and he moved his other hand down to his hip as well. As soon as both of his hands were free, Shawn’s fingers threaded through Lassiter’s hair and pulled him back up to his lips, pressing a violent kiss against him. Carlton moaned into it, his hands curving around too sharp hipbones, and he reciprocated in kind, his tongue parrying and thrusting against Shawn’s, both of them losing themselves in each other’s flavor.

After what felt like a brief eternity, Shawn pulled back and hummed as he licked a stripe up Lassiter’s neck and said, “You taste like gunpowder and…and…” He paused and licked around his ear, and Carlton felt his lower half take a bit too much interest as he added, “…and salt.”

The older man, getting more impatient than he wanted to admit, slid the fingers of his right hand underneath Shawn’s shirt, attempting to strip it off him.

“Ah, ah, Lassi,” the fake psychic whispered. “You first.”

And then, in a display that Lassiter could not deny turned him on, Shawn managed to effortlessly flip them back over in an artful maneuver of his hips, and while straddling his thighs, he reached down and helped Lassiter pull off his shirt. Before Carlton could say or do anything, Shawn had stripped off his own shirt and the older man tried not to feel too self-conscious at what he saw. Spencer may have had bad eating habits, but his body didn’t show it in the least: he had strong shoulders, a surprisingly firm chest, and a faint rippling of abs that were covered in fine, golden brown hair that tapered invitingly below his belt line. It had him feeling less than adequate and very much aware of, what Shawn called, his “stern bush”.

As if he really _could_ read his mind, the younger man reached down and scraped his trimmed fingernails over his nipples, causing Lassiter to arch up into him.

“Don’t worry, Lassi-ass,” he mused out loud as Carlton hissed at the sensation. “I like the rug. Trust me.”

He then leaned down and captured one nipple in between his teeth and the detective groaned, one hand going to the psychic’s head, holding him against him. His tongue and teeth tormented him for a moment longer and then he pulled up and grabbed Lassiter’s hand and proceeded to slide the detective’s middle finger between his lips, making an obscene sucking sound.

“Fuck, Shawn…”

Shawn let his finger slide out, a trail of spit streaking the end of it, and he smirked.

“That’s the idea, Lassi…”

Tired of him taking the lead, he grabbed his hips and pressed their still clothed erections against each other, and this time Shawn was the one that was moaning. Unable to stop himself, Carlton switched their positions once more, scrambling to take control, but enjoying the slight fight that Shawn put up against him. He ended up in a position he’d been in several times before, with Shawn on his stomach and his right arm pulled up behind him, but this time it was better.

“You like being handled, don’t you, Spencer?” he hissed into his ear as he used police subduing procedure in a way that was completely not authorized.

Shawn let out an unholy moan and rocked his hips back into Carlton’s and nodded, gasping out, “Oh, hell yes, Carlton. I should have known you’d be into role play. God yes, I love it. Every time you throw me into a wall or manhandle me, my thoughts always get a little bit…dirty.”

The visual suddenly came on too strong, and his body reacted instinctively, as he found himself pressing his fully hard cock into the cleft of Spencer’s ass. Instead of pulling away, however, Shawn pressed up into the movement, and Carlton was soon rutting against him like a dog in heat, unable to deny himself the sweet friction.

Spencer writhed beneath him, encouraging the motions.

Lassiter was slowly losing his mind, and he let out a low groan of disappointment when on a particularly _pleasant_ thrust…his phone rang.

Shawn was the first to act, groaning in frustration as he knew that Lassi would feel obligated to answer it, so he quickly turned over onto his back and slid his hand deep into Lassiter’s pocket, forcing a grunt from Carlton as his fingers dragged dangerously close to his still hard state, grabbing the ringing phone and flipping it open. Anger in his tone, he bit out, “Whoever this is, it better be one _hell_ of an emergency or else I will shoot you over the phone!”

Lassiter had never seen Spencer’s anger directed at someone else before, and couldn’t deny that it was hot.

Shawn was slightly embarrassed, however, when he heard a familiar female voice say, _“Shawn? But I thought I called Lassiter’s….oh. Oh! Oh my God, I am so sorry, Shawn, but I really, really need to talk to him. It's kind of an emergency situation. Uh, is he, uh…available?”_

Shawn let out an exasperated sigh as Lassiter rolled off of him and grabbed his shirt, as well as pulling on his shoes.

“Yeah, sure, Jules. He’s right here. Just…make it quick.”

_“Of course, Shawn.”_

He handed the phone to Lassiter and tried not to groan in frustration when the detective stood up and left the room, tucking his shirt in with one hand as he walked into the living room.

“O’Hara, what is it?”

_“It’s a third body, Carlton. We just got in a call and had it confirmed. Forced overdose on a chemical nerve agent mixed in with painkillers; the pill bottle was found on the body. Blonde female in her forties was found on Fifth and Stratford about thirty minutes ago. We’ve got CSI on the scene, and the chief wants us down there immediately. It’s a serial, now, so you know what that means.”_

The head detective found his tension returning once more, and took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. They’d had two bodies over the past three months show up in the exact same way, both times with no evidence. Third time was the charm. Unfortunately.

“I’ll be there in twenty. Just let me tell Spencer.”

He could practically hear her worry over the phone.

_“Of course. I’ll see you then.”_

“Yeah, see you then.”

They hung up and Carlton ground his back teeth as he finished buttoning up his shirt, dreading what was about to happen. He remembered every single time that he’d done this to his wife, and she had never been happy about it. Leaving almost as soon as he got home because of a break in a case, she used to get aggressively passive-aggressive and it had always been a nightmare.

He turned around at hearing a sound and saw Shawn standing in the bedroom doorway, leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb.

“You gotta go, don’t you.”

Lassiter nodded and then tried to explain, saying, “We’ve got a third body with the same M.O. as two others, so it looks like it’s--”, but Shawn cut him off.

“A serial killer. I get it, Lass.” He then walked up to him, still gloriously shirtless, Lassiter’s tie in his hand. He reached up, did up the last button on the older man’s shirt, and then carefully slid it around his collar, his fingers slowly, but surely, tying a trinity-knot. _Of_ course _he can tie a fucking trinity-knot_ , Lassiter thought to himself.  Spencer then patted his chest, smoothing out the wrinkles that were put there by him only a few minutes earlier, and then said, as he used the tie to pull Carlton closer, “Go sic him, Lassi,” a damn smirk appearing on his lips.

And that was when he knew.

He was in love with Shawn Spencer.

At hearing the understanding and the pride in Spencer’s voice as he practically encouraged him out the door, he just _knew_. This man was not only brilliant, but he somehow believed that _Carlton_ was as well, and that somehow turned him into a complete emotional mess at realizing that he only had a few precious months with him left.

Not thinking about it, he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss on the younger man’s lips, it’s speed much more leisurely than their hurried fumbling in the bedroom only minutes before, savoring the taste. He seemed surprised, but then tilted his head up into the kiss, their lips dragging long and slow, sparking something different in both of them as they took their time. All too soon for Carlton, he pulled back and said softly, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

 But Spencer shook his head, saying, “Hey, no rush. You’ve got a bad guy to catch, after all, Lassi-opolis.” Lassiter rolled his eyes at hearing the old nickname, but his bemused smile betrayed him. “And I believe you’re gonna need a jacket, a badge, and a gun for that.”

He disappeared back into their room and emerged with all three, handing them over as if he’d done it for him a thousand times. As if he was used to his boyfriend getting called away at a moment’s notice, and was perfectly fine with it and was even _happy_ for him because of it. As Lassiter pulled on his shoulder holster, however, he saw something light up in the younger man’s face, and was reminded of the look of when Spencer had seen him in his t-shirt in the precinct several weeks before.

Oh. So _that’s_ what that look was for.

Mentally smirking, Carlton filed away his boyfriend’s kink for future reference as he pulled on his sport coat and said, “I may call you in later on the case if we get stuck. Is, uh…that alright with you?”

Spencer threw him a roguish grin and replied, “Come on, son!” and Lassiter rolled his eyes.

As he walked out, despite knowing he was going to see a dead body, he smiled. His time with Shawn might not be forever, but it would be enough. He would make sure of it.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

A few long and impatient days later, Spencer slipped past the precinct doors with Gus following closely behind.

“Uh, Shawn, I thought you said Lassiter _asked_ for our help on this case?”

He nodded and then shook his head and clarified, “Well, not _yet_. I mean, he already told me that he was going to be asking for our help any way if they got stuck, and considering it’s been four days, I am figuring that they _are_ stuck and Lassi is just being too stubborn to come to me, so we’re gonna have to go to him.”

He pressed himself flat against the wall in order to keep from being seen, whereas Gus just stood in the middle of the hallway, looking at his friend incredulously.

“What are you doing, man?” Shawn hissed.

“Not making an ass of myself and walking in on an investigation that we haven’t been invited in on, Shawn! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a route to finish,” Gus said, turning on his heel and walking out of the police station, leaving Spencer only feeling slightly ridiculous as McNabb walked by and waved at him and said, “Hi, Spencer!”, leaving him awkwardly waving back half-heartedly.

“Hey…”

Feeling slightly stupid, but still determined, he balanced on his toes and snuck towards the main bullpen, keeping to the side. It was amazing what people didn’t notice if they weren’t actively looking for it. He saw the back of his boyfriend through the window to Vick’s office, and he could tell simply from the tension in his shoulders that whatever the meeting was about, it wasn’t going well. Oh, poor Lassi. He just needed a bit of help. Which Shawn was happy to provide.

Grinning, he slipped into the office and walked up behind him, placing his hands on his shoulders.

“Hey, Lassi!”

Without missing a beat, Lassiter replied, “Spencer. We were just talking about you.”

Perking up even more, he squeezed Carlton’s shoulders and said, “Really? Wow, because I just came here because I felt some _major_ psychic vibrations telling me that you were about to call me for my glorious expertise in conversing with the dead!”

Juliet gave a half-hearted smile while her partner rolled his eyes.

“Oh, so, if you knew we were going to call you, then what were we going to call you about?” said Carlton as he stealthily flipped over the clipboard so Spencer couldn’t see anything.

At seeing the raised eyebrow, Shawn knew that his boyfriend was testing him to see just what he could infer on the fly from the things in the room. Lassiter hadn’t seen just how good Shawn was, apparently, because the fake psychic wasn’t even phased. He’d seen the clipboard long enough. However, playing along, he put a finger to his head and closed his eyes, letting his free hand begin to shake. He loved doing this part, showing off just how much smarter he really was than them through crazy antics.

“I’m getting something…a strong, angry, _violent_ energy…from…from…a man! He’s…wearing a coat, a white one. He’s Hartnell, Troughton, Pertwee, Baker, Davison, Baker, McCoy, McGann, Eccleston--!”

“A doctor!” supplied Juliet, and Shawn gave her a surprised smile.

“Yes! Jules, you’re a fan?”

She shrugged.

“I started watching with Eccleston, stopped during Tennant. Eccleston brought some real substance to it and I just sort of…” She trailed off as she saw Vick’s look. “Right. Not important. You were saying something about an angry doctor?”

Shawn nodded and proceeded to throw himself at Lassiter, pressing a hand to the older man’s chest, biting his lip to keep from moaning when he felt just how firm the detective was underneath his suit. He’d seen him just out of the shower that morning with nothing but a towel on, water sliding down his stern bush, and the image came back to him in vivid detail as he bit the inside of his cheek. He just barely managed to contain himself and even kept the groping down to a minimum, as he tossed his body around the room, spouting off more of his “vision”, knowing he was about to shock the hell out of his boyfriend.

“There’s a green…sign…it’s neon! Something in the way you look tonight…Frank’s! A bar called Franks…” He paused, his mind flashing to the list and pictures he’d seen in a scramble of papers on the clipboard, and he had an epiphany. He knew how the three victims were connected. In order to do anything, however, he was going to need Gus’s help. Shit. Quickly, he spun out, “I’m getting something else…drugs…a used prescription pad…illegal money…”

He flailed and grabbed Lassiter’s wallet, ignoring his cry of protest, keeping just out of his reach far enough to manage to flip it open.

He then gasped out in a characterized voice, “I’ve got diplomatic immunity!”

Lassiter suddenly stopped trying to reach for his wallet and said, “The doctor’s medical license was revoked?”

Both Juliet and the chief looked at the head detective in surprise, trying to figure out how he’d just jumped to that conclusion. Feeling self-conscious, Lassiter snatched his wallet back from Spencer’s lax hand and shoved it into his jacket pocket and said, “Oh, c’mon, who doesn’t know that line?” They still gave him blank looks. “Lethal Weapon 2?” he added, feeling even more singled out. “I’ve got diplomatic immunity,” he quoted. “Well, it’s just been revoked.” They continued to stare at him, and he brushed them off, saying, “Look, it’s obvious that Spencer is seeing an unauthorized doctor working illegally out of some back alley bar. This is ridiculous.”

Shawn, on the other hand, looked like a proud idiot, a grin plastered across his face.

“Lassi…I’ve never been more proud of you than I have in this moment.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Oh, shut your mouth, Spencer,” he barked out.

“If your mouth is involved as well, then I will gladly do as you ask, Lassi-face.”

At this, Lassiter flushed a deep red and stumbled over his words, but before he could say anything, Vick interrupted and said, “Okay, Mr. Spencer, thank you for the information. We’re looking for a bar called Frank’s.” She looked at him, one eyebrow arched. “Mr. Spencer. Any idea where it might be?”

Shawn stumbled to the desk and put a hand over top of the overturned clipboard and shook his head, saying, “I’m getting vague impressions of…” In his mind, he saw two addresses of possible suspects. One was downtown, in a slightly upscale area. The other one was in a slightly shadier area on the Westside. San Andres. “A lark…no, a laurel! Laurel Road…it’s near Laurel Road.”

The chief nodded.

“Okay, then. We’ll check it out. Until then, Mr. Spencer, if you could--”

“Go with Lassi and keep him company?” he interjected, giving his boyfriend an exaggerated look of longing.

“No,” she said firmly. “If you could go back _home_ , we can contact you if or when your information pans out. Now,” she added, snapping out orders. “Lassiter and O’Hara, I want you to go on down to Laurel Road and see if you can find this bar. Lassiter, tell McNabb that I need him on phone duty. I want him to call as many friends and neighbors as possible to find out how any of the victims might have met the same doctor. Is that understood?”

“You got it, Chief.”

She nodded at the three of them, dismissing them, and Shawn trailed behind them as they walked out of her office.

“So, Lassi,” he said, stealthily groping his ass as he pressed in close. “Will I be seeing you at home for dinner tonight?”

Lassiter turned his head and glared at him as he grabbed his coat from the back of his chair.

“I’m working a serial killer case, Spencer, what the hell do you think?”

Shawn tried not to show the hurt on his face as he pulled back, but it must have registered for a brief second, because he saw Jules give her partner a stern look, her eyebrow arching in Lassiter’s direction. He gave her an exasperated look as if to say, _What? What did I do?_ and she simply pursed her lips and tilted her head in Shawn’s direction with a look that was obviously saying, _You hurt his feelings. Fix it._

He glanced over at his partner, who simply gave him the look a second time, and he let out a frustrated sigh and stepped towards the younger man and said, in a more intimate and much softer tone that only he could hear, “I’m not sure, Shawn. This case is kind of important, so I’ll be pulling some long hours…”

Shawn, trying not to show his disappointment, simply nodded and said, “Hey, I get it, man. Justice doesn’t sleep, right?” He started to turn away, attempting to hide his disappointment, when he felt a severe stabbing pain through his right shoulder, travelling down his back, and he grit his teeth and let out a low groan. Carlton was immediately at his side, but then saw the concerned look his partner shot in Shawn’s direction, and the detective immediately let up on his mothering-hen actions and simply whispered in his boyfriend’s ear, “Are you alright?”

Shawn nodded.

“Yeah, I’ll…” He winced. “I’ll be fine. Just…do you think you could try and come home tonight?” Lassiter hesitated, but then Spencer gave him a suggestive look and said, “Trust me. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Lassiter gave him a half-smile, and replied, “Oh, I’m sure you will, Shawn.” He then gave him a quick once over and asked a second time, “Are you _sure_ you’re alright?”

Spencer nodded a second time and smirked at him, saying, “Nothing a little pain meds can’t fix,” while patting his pocket. “Don’t worry about me, Carlton,” he whispered back, making sure that Jules didn’t overhear them. “I’ll have dinner waiting for you, all nice and warmed up. Oh, and food, too, if you want it.”

Snorting, Carlton attempted not to smile at the open innuendo, but the corner of his mouth went up and Shawn inwardly crowed in victory.

“Just…don’t do anything stupid, alright?”

The fake psychic grinned.

“You do know who you’re talking to, right?”

Carlton nodded.

“Yes, I do, which is my point, Shawn. I’d like to have you in one piece when I get home tonight.”

At hearing that, Shawn’s whole face lit up, and Lassiter tried not to look like a lovesick idiot at the sight. He was Head Detective and was feared and respected by all at the precinct; it wouldn’t do for them to see him looking like an absolute lovelorn fool. But, on the other hand…

Not thinking about it, he put a finger under Shawn’s chin and tilted his mouth up to meet his in a quick, soft kiss. The look of shock in the younger man’s eyes was all that he needed to see to know that he had actually taken Shawn Spencer completely by surprise. Not bothering to hide his grin, he said, “See you at home,” and then turned and walked away, pulling his coat on, ignoring the glowing smile of approval on his partner’s face as they walked out of the bullpen.

It took him a moment, but then Shawn managed to snap out of it enough to say, “Well, shit.”

* * *

Still reeling from the fact that Lassiter had kissed him in front of everyone, Shawn stumbled back out to his bike and pulled out his phone. As he sat on the seat, he hit speed-dial number two, and waited impatiently as the phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. _C’mon, Gus,_ he thought to himself, mentally begging him to pick up his phone. _For once, I really need your help._

On the seventh ring, he picked up.

_“Shawn, whatever the hell it is, I’m not interested! We’re not invited on the case--”_

“Actually, yes, we are,” Shawn interrupted. “The chief asked me to help, so I did.”

 _“After you invited yourself onto the case, you mean,”_ said Gus, interrupting him right back. _“It’s like inviting yourself over to other people’s houses, Shawn! It’s never polite, and should never been done.”_

“Whaddaya mean? I used to invite myself over all the time when we were kids!”

_“My point exactly!”_

Rolling his eyes, the psychic testily said, “Look, man, I don’t have time for this. I _really_ need your help on this one, and it’s a good thing you’re at work, because this wouldn’t work otherwise.” He pulled out his pill bottle from his jacket pocket and nervously rolled it in his hand as he asked, “Can you look up a Dr. Wendell Richards? I think he might be our unsub.”

_“Unsub, Shawn? You’ve been binge watching Criminal Minds, again, haven’t you?”_

“Uh, can I help it that Thomas Gibson is a sexy hunk of man meat? No, no I can’t. So, look up the doctor and tell me if he’s been disbarred.”

 _“Doctors can’t_ be _disbarred, Shawn,”_ his friend replied. _“They can have their medical licenses revoked, and you know that, so quit acting like you don’t. Now, give me a minute.”_

Impatient, he fiddled with the knobs on his bike, trying not to snap at his friend to hurry it up. He prayed that he was wrong, but knowing him and his theories, he was most likely right, and that scared him. It meant that everything about his and Lassiter’s relationship could change in an instant if he was. And Shawn wasn’t sure if he could handle it.

Gus finally spoke up, sounding confused as he said, _“Uh, Shawn…Dr. Wendell Richards was an oncology surgeon who apparently had been forcing chemotherapy medicine onto patients who were choosing to refuse treatment.”_ Shit. _“Looks like several of his patients filed lawsuits against him, so they revoked his medical license. Damn. Now_ there’s _a nasty piece of work.”_

“Tell me about it,” Shawn replied, trying to keep his nerves from coming through in his voice. “Okay, thanks man. I owe you one.”

_“You owe me five, Shawn! Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the smoothie incident of ’02.”_

Rolling his eyes, he hung up the phone and put it back into his jacket. As he drove off on his bike, his mind kept on going back to the name. Doctor Wendell Richards. He had been the doctor who had told him about his condition. How the hell had he gotten into the hospital in the first place? How had he gotten past security? …and what the hell was he trying to do?

All those thoughts festered even as he pulled up to his and Lassiter’s apartment.

Still feeling some pain in his shoulder as he walked into the front foyer, he didn’t even think about it as he popped a pill and ground it between his back teeth…and that was when it hit him. As he swallowed the bitter powder, he looked down at the label on the bottle, the name in bold letters.

_Dr. Wendell Richards._

Was it possible that Shawn was his next victim?

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo sorry this took so long to update! I hit a roadblock...but then I broke through it! I'm putting up a playlist over on YouTube for this story. It's a list of songs that I think encompass their relationship throughout the story, but in no particular order. Pick whatever songs you like for whatever chapter. :) 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLMP14bJGnQo4CjsJrUGatmAqZRX04kk5g

**Chapter 17**

Shawn woke up covered in a cold sweat and gasping from a nightmare. He instinctively reached across for Carlton, and was upset when he realized that he wasn’t in the bed. He rolled onto his stomach, glancing at the clock, idly wondering where the hell his boyfriend was at three twenty-seven in the morning.

Slightly worried, but also knowing that he was probably only in the other room, he dragged himself from the sheets and threw on a pair of sweats over his boxers. Carlton kept their apartment at a nice and cool sixty-eight degrees. Mainly because he ran hot; at least, to Shawn he did. He’d been sleeping next to the man for the past two weeks and the head detective was practically a furnace of heat under the covers, which was the only reason why some _serious_ cuddling (and other things) hadn’t yet quite happened.

He yawned as he stepped into the living room…and then he stopped.

Carlton was passed out on the couch in his sweats and an old academy t-shirt, a folder splayed awkwardly against his chest, papers spilling out of it. Spencer smiled.

Of course he fell asleep while trying to keep on working on the case. It was almost adorable…if it wasn’t so worrying. The psychic stepped forward and carefully took the case file off of his chest, sliding the papers back in, his eyes lingering over it longer than was strictly necessary. For some reason, Carlton was determined to solve this one on his own. It made Shawn nervous and apprehensive, as he was certain that his boyfriend was overworking himself. Especially now that he knew that he was somehow inextricably intertwined with their unsub.

Deciding to let it go for the time being, he reached down and gently rubbed Lassiter’s shoulder, trying to rouse him just enough to drag him back to bed.

“Huh?” said Carlton as he shook his head, reminding Shawn of a dog waking up from a nap. “Sha-awn?” he said, a yawn splitting up the single syllable of his name. “What are you doing out here?”

He kept from rolling his eyes and replied, as he helped him to an upright position, “Oh, you know how it goes. I wake up to find you gone, so naturally I came out to raid the fridge of all your cheese and pickles.” He groaned as Carlton leaned into him. “Ugh, you know,” he added, hooking his arm under his boyfriend’s. “Just the usual…”

Lassiter leaned into him more than Shawn was used to, and he braced himself as best he could as he helped him back to bed.

Yawning a second time, the detective leaned further in so that his lips were right next to Shawn’s ear and he whispered, “I…I thought you were gorgeous the first time I met you, you know that, Shawn?”

Letting out a snort of disbelief, Spencer shook his head.

“Yeah, sure you did, Lassi.”

“No, I’m…I’m s’rious,” he slurred, almost as if he was drunk. “You came into the interrogation room in your leather coat and tight jeans and I wanted to maul you from across the ta…table. Fuck, those _jeans_. You still, uh, have those _jeans_ , Spen…cerrrr?”

He absently nodded, too focused on putting one foot in front of the other to notice the way Lassiter was staring at him. The walk to the bedroom seemed to feel like miles with the weight of his boyfriend’s six-foot-one -frame practically smothering him as they moved inch by _excruciating_ inch.

They managed to make it to the bedroom, where Shawn then unceremoniously dumped him on the edge of the bed, and tried not to let himself be dragged down by Carlton’s lanky arms and surprisingly grabby hands. He’d never had to deal with a sleepy Carlton before, and it would have been downright hilarious if he wasn’t trying so hard to make sure that he was alright. He turned him over and helped him pull off his sweatpants and then threw them into the corner and said, “If you weren’t so out of it, Lassi-ass, I would _seriously_ be taking advantage of you, right now…”

The man in question giggled at his words, letting Shawn know just how out of it he was. He was tempted to grab his phone and take a picture of the Head Detective, who was currently attempting to roll over and was grabbing at Shawn’s wrist, trying to tug him towards the sheets, but decided against it.

“I like sleeping next to you,” Lassiter murmured, his voice drifting even more as he started to drift back to sleep. “You feel nice…”

Yep. Woozy Carlton. Abso-fucking-lutely adorable.

Deciding to humor him, he let himself be pulled down and snorted when Lassiter wrapped an arm around his chest and threw a leg over top of both of his. Apparently, a sleepy Carlton was a cuddly Carlton. Not that Shawn was complaining, but he knew in a few hours he would wake up roasting. But the discomfort was worth the time spent close to him.

He let the man cling to him, and then, just as Shawn was certain that he was asleep, the detective said, “You saw the papers, right?”

Shawn nodded.

“Yeah, Lass. I saw the papers.”

“Any ideas…about the victims’…ATM statements?” he said, his words fading in and out, and Shawn shrugged, not sure if he should respond, fairly certain that Carlton wouldn’t remember their conversation come morning. After a moment, he replied, “I haven’t seen those, so, no, Lass, no ideas.”

“But,” the older man added, his voice now below a whisper, barely audible, “Those were the papers you just…just…saw…”

Shawn froze.

From the steady breathing, he knew Carlton was asleep, and Shawn knew that there was no way _he_ would be falling asleep. He wracked his brain, thinking back to only a few moments earlier when he’d taken a good look at the papers, longer than he needed to remember them…and couldn’t remember a single detail.

Shit.

It was starting.

He shivered, despite the heat of his boyfriend’s body, and tried to come to terms with what was happening to him. This was the part that he had been most apprehensive about. The memory loss. And now it was finally starting. Great, just great. Perfect timing. The _one_ time that he needed his memory the most, and it was abandoning him.

Forcing himself to ignore it, he tucked himself closer to his boyfriend and let out a soft sigh. He knew it was going to be happening sooner or later, he’d just hoped that it was going to be later.

He looked down at Lassiter, who shifted and made a sound remarkably close to a snore, and he felt some of his fear leave him.

He had Carlton.

It would be okay.

* * *

Carlton woke up entirely disoriented the next morning, bits of pieces of memory coming back to him. He vaguely remembered being on the couch, looking over the case file, trying to figure out who it was that was slipping the victims the nerve destroying drug, but coming up empty. He also remembered Shawn helping him to bed…

…but anything that was said was buzzed and out of focus, nothing but white noise in his head.

He reached for Shawn, found the bed empty, and then took a deep breath and the smell of breakfast cooking reached him: bacon and pancakes.

Feeling motivated, he rolled out of the bed and grabbed his robe from the back of the door, surprised that Shawn hadn’t taken it. He had a penchant for stealing Lassiter’s clothes whenever the opportunity presented itself, so he was pleased to find his robe wasn’t missing.

He wandered out, tying off the plush terrycloth knot, and was vaguely aware that something was off with his boyfriend. Yes, he was his usual exuberant self, but it was something else…something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Shawn was cooking, but almost with a manic energy, instead of just his usual overly-exuberant energy. There was a distinct difference…but instead of calling him on it, he walked in, sat down on a stool at the island and said, “Breakfast already?”

Shawn whirled, spatula in hand.

“Oh, you’re up! But, I’m not done, I’ve still got to flip the bacon pancakes…”

“Bacon _pancakes?_ Don’t tell me you--”

“Combined them? Hell, yes! Are you saying you’ve never had _bacon_ pancakes before? My god, Lassi, you are missing out on only one of the greatest breakfast culinary delights! Gus and I invented them at Camp Wasichowska our first year there. It was a _brilliant_ innovation on my part--”

He cut him off, saying, “Meaning it was probably a horrible fiasco.”

Shawn look affronted.

“How dare you! I was stuck with one pan because I had no choice but to throw my other pan at an obviously evil raccoon that had been stalking me ever since I arrived, which was an _accident_.” Carlton snorted, and the younger man rolled his eyes. “Look, do you wanna try them or not? Because, if not, then I’m eating all of them in one sitting, which will probably end up with me hurling my guts out later in the bathroom at the station.” He paused and then absently added, as if forgetting Carlton was there, “Of course, I’ve been doing that _any_ way, so, really, not much of a difference…”

At this, Carlton shot a look in his boyfriend’s direction.

“You’ve been…are you serious?”

Shawn’s shoulders tensed and it took all of the older man’s effort to not walk over and shake some sense into him. He took a deep breath, instead, and said, “I’m not…I’m not mad, Shawn. I just…I just wish you would _talk_ to me about what you’re going through. We’re a team, now. What affects you, affects me. You get that, don’t you?”

Spencer paused a second time, and then turned down the heat on the stove and turned around, gesturing in his usual over-exuberant way.

“I’m still getting used to that part, actually. I mean…things are all adult and serious and it’s all a bit weird for me, you know? The longest long-term relationship I’ve ever had has been with Gus, and I think I’m adult enough now to admit that it’s not one of the healthiest ones I’ve ever had. I’ve relentlessly abused him over the years, and not in the kinky dominatrix kind of way…”

Lassiter rolled his eyes, and got up from the stool and walked over to him, poking a finger into Shawn’s chest as he replied, “You talk too much, Shawn.”

The fake psychic gave him a short laugh.

“Don’t tell me you’re just figuring this out now, Lass, because I’ve got to tell you, that I have apparently over-estimated your abilities over the years. Talking is one of my crowning achievements in life, just ask Henry. He’ll tell you everything you never wanted to know about me, all in some last ditch effort to make you throw me out of the apartment. Speaking of which, have you thought about updating your kitchen tile? I think a very tasteful backsplash right between the shelves and counter space would really--”

Carlton pressed a finger to his lips, shutting him up. He withheld the impulse to kiss him to silence, as he knew that this kind of babbling was his nervous kind, and not his usual upbeat, in-a-good-mood kind.

“Shawn…what’s wrong?” He could see an excuse about to rise, and he quickly cut him off. “Don’t even try it, Shawn. Something’s happened. What is it.”

He withered under his boyfriend’s scrutiny and caved in, reluctantly replying with, “Last night. I sort of…well…my memory’s slipping.” Carlton froze and Shawn looked down at the floor. “Yeah, figured that might be your reaction. Look, Lassi, _I’m_ still coming to terms with it, and I completely understand if it makes you uncomfortable…”

His voice faded as his boyfriend glared at him.

“You really think I care?”

Shawn shrugged.

“Uh…yeah? It’s kind of the only reason why I’m any good at doing what I’m doing, and if that goes away, then instead of being stuck with a genius boyfriend who’s helping him solve cases while fulfilling his last dying wishes in a way that would make Jack Nicholson green with envy, you’re stuck with just a dying boyfriend. Do you really think you wanna be saddled with that kind of--?”

Deciding to go with his first choice, Lassiter leaned in and shut him up with a firm kiss to his lips, making sure to pull him away from the still warm stove.

They pulled back from each other roughly, and the head detective tried to withhold the impulse to throw him face down on the island counter and thoroughly have his way with him, and instead gripped his fingers tightly around Shawn’s hips and said, his voice lower than usual, “I’d rather have this time with you than without you, Shawn. End of discussion.”

Still panting, he nodded and gasped out, “You make a compelling argument. But I might need to have it a few more times before it sinks in. How about now?”

Carlton laughed.

“Your bacon pancakes are done.”

Shawn glanced over his shoulder.

“Hey, whaddaya know. They are done. But you got one thing wrong, Lassi,” he said as he turned around and slid them from the pan onto two plates.

“And what’s that?”

Shawn smirked.

“ _Our_ bacon pancakes are done.”

Lassiter smiled.

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Spencer was at the end of his rope. Literally. He dangled fifteen feet above the floor of an abandoned warehouse, clinging for life to a worn out old cable, while Gus, who was standing up at the top from where the cable dropped, yelled down at him, his voice gaining higher and higher pitch.

“I _told_ you we should have waited for Lassiter, Shawn! Jumping ahead too far always lands us right here!”

“And where’s that, exactly?” Shawn shouted back, trying to climb the rope, his hands beginning to cramp, as well as his shoulders.

“With you doing something stupid enough to get yourself killed!” his friend threw back at him, attempting (and failing) to help him back up by pulling the rope. How Shawn had gotten there wasn’t exactly the longest story. He’d called Gus with his information and manage to convince his friend that the two of them should check out the address ahead of time, giving Lassi plausible deniability should anything happen. Of course, nothing was there except for a mostly empty warehouse, completely devoid of the drugs that Shawn was certain Dr. Richards was hiding there. He had then decided that they should start up top, and he’d neglected to notice that the floor simply stopped beyond a certain point.

He let out a frustrated grunt as he attempted, once more, to gain more than a couple of pathetic inches, but his strength was practically non-existent.

 _Stupid cancer_ , Spencer thought to himself as he felt his upper left thigh begin to tingle, a sign that he was about to go completely numb. _Of course,_ he continued thinking, _it could just be completely faked by the drugs. Maybe Richards_ wanted _me to think I was sick so that I’d take the drugs, and that’s how he slipped in the novichok-5._

He’d had Gus take a look at one of the pills that he’d slipped from evidence, and using his pharmaceutical expertise (meaning he’d flirted with the girl at the lab to find out the information), he’d told him which nerve agent it was.

Apparently, it was an old Russian biological weapon that was a, quote, “organophosphate acetylcholinesterase inhibitor”, which pretty much meant that it was trying to stop his nerves from feeling anything. In concentrated doses, it killed practically instantly, but if it was in minute amounts, spread out over a long, intermittent period of time, it’s affects were similar to signs of nerve cancer. So, if that’s what was really happening, then Shawn, who hadn’t been taking as many drugs as of late, just might be alright. But as it was at the moment, he was clinging for his life, having to rely on a friend who could barely lift a heavy bag of cereal, let alone a grown man.

“Gus!” Shawn yelled up. “I’d really like to _not_ die today, man! Put your back into it!”

“I _am_ putting my back into it, Shawn!”

He heard Gus let out a whimper of pain.

Great. Just great.

Ignoring the fact that his left thigh had finally gone numb, he blocked out everything from his mind, except for one thing. The only thought that would help him climb the damn cable… _If Carlton finds me dead on the floor in an abandoned warehouse on the bad side of town, he will_ kill _me…and I will never get laid._

Feeling properly motivated, he managed to struggle up the cable that Gus was barely moving, and the instant he got a hand over the edge, his friend grabbed it and nearly yanked his shoulder out of its’ socket as he pulled and dragged him back onto a level surface.

“Geez, Gus!” Shawn groaned. “You may look pretty buff, but you’re only pretty. My god, you have _got_ to start lifting weights, man!”

Gus sniffed.

“I tone, Shawn. And you know that I have a bad back…”

“Because you don’t lift weights, you ass!”

They both lay there for a few moments, trying to catch their breath. Shawn caught his much sooner than Gus, as he wasn’t as out of shape as he was and the feeling had come back to his leg. He slowly sat up and then got back up to his feet, offering a hand to his still winded friend. Both of them grunting, Shawn managed to help Gus back to his feet.

“Stairs?” he suggested, and Gus nodded.

“Yes. Stairs. Please.”

Worn out, their adrenaline slowly winding down from the death-defying experience, they walked down the corrugated metal stairs, their footsteps echoing loudly through the large warehouse. It hadn’t exactly been the best of days, so neither of them were in any rush to risk their necks a second time trying to race out of the abandoned and less-than-stable structure. However, the instant they hit the first landing, Shawn took a glance towards the mostly empty floor…and he froze.

“Hey, Gus…how big would you say this warehouse is on the inside? Say, just under eight thousand square feet?”

Gus shrugged and replied, “I guess so, why?”

Shawn hummed for a moment and then said, “Because when we were outside it was about two hundred square feet larger.” He scanned the room and pinpointed where the problem was. “Over there. Something’s off with that wall.” Gus rolled his eyes, but Shawn knew that he was right. He plowed ahead of him and tossed over his shoulder, “Follow me, man.”

He took the steps two at a time, knowing that his reticent partner was taking them as slowly as before, one measly stair at a time. The instant Shawn hit the warehouse floor, he bolted over to the far wall and gave it a close-up inspection, grinning to himself when he saw the rudimentary fake panel. He leaned into it and grinned like an idiot when it gave under the weight of his shoulder.

“Hey, Gus!” he yelled up to him. “I actually found a _secret room!_ Like, seriously!”

Gus just shook his head, entirely not amused.

“I don’t care, Shawn. We are leaving. You nearly falling to your death has just filled my quota of near-death experiences for the week. Now, let’s go!”

He ignored him as he glanced inside, and smiled when he saw that he had found the secret stash of drugs. He grabbed a pill bottle to take a closer look at, slipping into his jacket pocket. He couldn’t let Lassi know just yet, of course, but he could enlist his friend’s help for a little bit longer and find out _exactly_ what the dosage was.

Shawn whined back at Gus, upset that he was trying to make them leave when they’d cracked the case wide open.

“But I just found the secret room where the drugs are being kept!”

“I don’t care, Shawn! We. Are. Leaving.”

And with that, he headed for the exit.

Deciding to keep him from storming out on his own, the fake psychic followed after him, both of them picking up their pace as they made their way back to the Blueberry. The warehouse wasn’t exactly in the best part of town, and Gus was overbearing enough as it was when it came to his company vehicle, so Shawn didn’t complain when he practically shoved him into the passenger’s seat.

It wasn’t until they were close to the office that Shawn said, “Need you to run some diagnostics on the drugs,” and pulled out the bottle, looking at the name on the label. Yep. Richards. However, Shawn was taken aback when he saw the glare that Gus sent in his direction.

“Okay, first of all, Shawn,” he started, his lecture tone coming through loud and clear, “I am _not_ a pharmacologist, so I cannot run it. I am a pharmaceutical sales rep. Also, Becky from the lab won’t let me come near her any more ever since the tuna sandwich incident.”

“I _still_ don’t know how you didn’t know she was allergic, man!” Shawn said, laughing.

Guster cut him off, saying, “And _second_ of all, Shawn…why the hell haven’t you told Lassiter about any of this? He knows you’re not psychic, so there’s no point in trying to hide it from him anymore. You have a name, and you need to give it to him! You _know_ there’s gonna be all sorts of bad things if you don’t tell him now!”

Shawn winced, and bit his tongue.

It was so damn complicated. He’d stopped taking the drug, but he was certain that Carlton, the instant he found out that almost all of Shawn’s symptoms could be explained away by the drug, would immediately sell him out to Vick. The only reason why his boyfriend hadn’t said anything was because he was supposedly going to be dead in a few months, but if it was just the drugs…there went that deal. He couldn’t ask Carlton to continue to lie for him for the rest of his life. It wasn’t fair to him.

Finally, he said, “I, uh…I’m just trying to figure out how to, you know...tell him.”

Gus scoffed.

“Seriously? Go into the station and fake a vision like you always do and spit out the doctor’s name. What’s so hard about that?”

Again, Spencer bit his lip.

He stared out the window and as they pulled up in front of the Psych office, he said, “You’re right. I’ll just do that. I mean, why wouldn’t I tell him? It’s not like I’m trying to lie to him all the time anymore,” but even as he said it, he felt the guilt start to settle in. Yes. He _was_ still lying to him. And never had he hated himself more than at that moment.

Gus rolled his eyes as they got out of the car, and replied with, “Just get over your damn ego and tell him. Lassiter _is_ actually a good detective, in case you didn’t remember, and when he finds out that you knew and didn’t tell him, you will be sleeping on the couch.”

Shawn nodded, trying to ignore the churning in his gut.

He slumped down behind his desk and looked at his blank screen. Lassiter was going to hate him.

* * *

He snuck into the station that evening and watched as Jules and his boyfriend pored over the files in front of them, trying to figure out a name that connected all of their victims. Shawn knew he had to step in, he knew he had to fake a vision…but his usual urge to grope and wildly gesticulate was non-existent.

Realizing he couldn’t put it off any longer, he walked up to them.

Juliet looked up first.

“Shawn! Hey, what are you doing here? You’re not usually here in the evenings.”

He hesitated a moment, but then took a deep breath and said, “The spirits have been pretty helpful and given me a name. Dr. Wendell Richards. Check hospital records and their bank statements. I have a hunch he treated all of our victims at different times and they’ve been giving him payments into an account with a fake name. None of them were actually sick, he only told them they were so that they’d accept the drugs. Oh, and the drugs are in a warehouse on Laurel Road.”

She gave him a look, one eyebrow arched, and said in a subdued tone, “You seem off, Shawn. Are you okay?”

He chanced a look over at Carlton, who remained silent, and nodded, saying, “Yeah, I’m just…you know, drained. It’s kinda been a long day and it’s easier to deal with the spirits in the morning, when they’re still waking up, you know. The later in the day it gets, the more juice they build up and it just takes a lot more out of me.”

The lie fell effortlessly off his lips, and he bit his own lip and turned his head to keep from seeing the look in Lassiter’s eye.

Juliet nodded.

“Okay, fine. And thank you. We’ll check it out.”

She picked up her copies of the file and walked back towards her desk, leaving him alone with the head detective. Shawn still couldn’t look him in the eye, looking down at the floor, then the wall, and then up at the ceiling, pretending to be mesmerized by the fiberboard tiles.

Lassiter, on the other hand, was having none of it and grabbed him by the upper arm and dragged him over to the privacy of the break room, where he proceeded to glare at him before saying, “How long have you known that name, Spencer?” Shit. Last name. He was pissed. Shawn didn’t answer, and Lassiter repeated himself.  “Goddammit, Shawn, how long?”

Finally, the fake psychic gave in.

“About three days.”

“You’ve been sitting on this doctor’s name for _three days?_ ” he hissed out, looking at the younger man incredulously. He ran a hand through his hair, and Shawn knew that he had royally fucked up. Carlton let out a frustrated sigh, and then took a deep breath, obviously trying to control his anger. “Shawn, you can’t…you can’t hide this kind of thing from me, anymore. You realize this, right?” Shawn wouldn’t look him in the eye, but he continued.

“Look, you are one _hell_ of a detective,” he said, and at that, Shawn’s head snapped up, hazel eyes locking onto blue, and Carlton mentally snorted at the fact that _that_ had gotten his attention. “But you can’t just do this on your own. There’s a _reason_ why we have laws, and I can’t…I can’t constantly run interference if you’re determined to put on a damn show for everyone all the time! If you tell me things when you find them out and show me _how_ you got to your conclusions, I can get warrants for more information!”

At this, Shawn snapped.

Gesticulating wildly, he spat out, “Warrants, Lassi? Seriously?! We don’t have that kind of time, and you and I both know it! I had to get Gus and go and find where the drugs were being held so that I could figure out how to best tell you that--”

“You went to the _warehouse?_ Without back up?”

“Oh, c’mon, I was with Gus--”

“No, Shawn,” he interrupted, eyes blazing. “You don’t do stupid stunts like this anymore! Don’t you remember how you got kidnapped?” Shawn rolled his eyes, but Lassiter was the one who snapped this time, his voice going low and threatening. “You went someplace, without any backup, and you got shot! I remember because I was the one who found your blood! I can’t…” He cut himself off, his hands going to his hips, looking down at the ground. In a tight voice, he finally added, “I can’t see that happen again. It’s… Shit. Shawn, it’s personal this time.”

His eyes came back up and he looked at his boyfriend imploringly. Shawn stared at him, unable to think of any reply. After a few moments of awkward silence, he fidgeted nervously and took a step back, knowing that he had to tell him the next part, which was what was going to piss him off the most.

“I get that, Lassi, I do. I mean, it’s personal for me, too, now, but…there’s something else you need to know.”

Lassiter groaned, and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“What.”

“When I was in the hospital, a doctor came into my room. He’s the one who told me that I was, you know, sick. I assumed that he was the one who worked on me, so I got a basic pain prescription from him…”

He didn’t have to finish his sentence, and let his voice trail off as the detective put together the pieces, his expression turning from one of pain, to one that Shawn couldn’t quite explain. He looked almost…hopeful. And that worried Spencer more than he cared to admit. He’d rather see him angry.

“Wait…are you saying…that _Richards_ has been dosing you? That…you…might not actually…?”

Shawn shrugged.

“Look, don’t get your hopes up. I mean, I stopped the drugs, but until I get an actual test, I’m still not convinced, so…just…don’t.”

Lassiter’s look turned confused…and then he shot him a fierce glare and stepped into the psychic’s personal space, crowding him up against one of the tables, and Shawn’s fingers grabbed the edge to keep himself from falling over as his boyfriend put his strong arms down on either side of him, pinning him.

He glared him for a moment longer, and then said, his voice almost at a growl, “You think I’m just gonna throw you away if you’re not sick? That I’ll just tell the chief and throw you under the bus?”

“It had occurred to me,” Shawn breathed out.

Carlton arched an eyebrow.

“Then you’re an idiot,” he drawled out, and then, not caring that they could easily be seen by anyone walking past the break room, leaned in and kissed him, violently. At first, Shawn struggled…and then he gave in the instant he felt Lassiter’s tongue at his lips. _Who am I to argue against such a well thought-out argument?_ Shawn thought to himself as he opened his mouth, letting him in. Holy fuck, this was better than some of his best precinct-based fantasies.

They were flush against each other, and both of them could feel how hard the other one was, but they didn’t dare move their hips for fear of anyone seeing and knowing. As their mouths sloppily connected over and over again, both of their hands still on the table, the only thought in Shawn’s mind was, _God, I love him._ Carlton’s mouth was hot and wet and tasted _so_ fucking good…and little Shawn was definitely getting more than excited at thinking just what else Carlton had in mind for the two of them.

He shifted slightly, trying to get _some_ friction…

…and there was a cough at the doorway.

They immediately pulled back, and saw Juliet standing there, a faint flush on her cheeks.

“Hey,” she said timidly, her arms held awkwardly in front of herself. “I know this isn’t exactly the best timing, but, uh…we got a hit on the name. Dr. Wendell Richards. I mean, I could leave, if you want me to just go,” she added, pointing over her shoulder, but even as Shawn was about to agree, Carlton cut him off.

“No. Now’s fine.”

Shawn glared at his boyfriend, still panting. Seriously? They were just going to keep on letting Jules interrupt their alone time? He opened his mouth to protest, but at seeing the expression on Lassiter’s face, he knew that it was pointless to say anything, that his mind was already made up.

“Sure, fine,” Spencer said, waving a hand in her direction. “He’s all yours. Just…bring him back to me in piece, alright? I have plans for him, later.”

Juliet nodded, not quite able to look either of them in the eye.

Carlton brushed past her, headed for her desk and the information that she’d uncovered, and Shawn started to sidle past her through the doorway…and then paused. He looked at her, then looked at his boyfriend’s retreating backside, and then back at her.

“How long were you standing there?”

Her flush deepened.

“I…I didn’t mean to…”

Smirking, he said confidently, “We’re hot together, right?”

Again, she wouldn’t look him in the eye…but just as he was about to walk away, he saw her give him a faint nod, and he smiled. He took a few steps and heard her mutter under her breath, “Hell, yes, and it’s entirely not fair.”

Shawn bit his lip to keep from laughing, but inside him a riot was breaking out. Who knew that strait-laced Jules was a closet voyeur?

He smiled as he stood behind them while they pored over the documents, and tried to keep himself from laughing like an idiot and shouting at the top of his lungs. Lassiter had all but shouted that he wasn’t going to let him go, that he wasn’t going to sell him out with just three simple words: _You’re an idiot._

Maybe there was hope after all.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Carlton was mad at Shawn. Hell, he was _beyond_ angry. Shawn had kept the name from him for _three_ fucking days. He wanted to strangle him…but yet, at the same time, he wanted to shout from the rooftops. Okay, maybe not the rooftops, but from somewhere, because his boyfriend might not actually be sick.

The instant Shawn had told him about the pills and he’d realized that the fake psychic might not be dying from cancer, something inside of him had unwound from its’ tightly bound position.

And he knew what it was.

Hope.

He’d been avoiding this feeling for various reasons, but he knew the main reason why. If he let any part of himself become too invested and then it turned out that it wasn’t true, that Shawn was still dying…he would be crushed. And he knew it. Carlton leaned back in his office chair and let out a frustrated sigh, ignoring the look shot in his direction from his partner.

She was mad at him for other reasons. She still didn’t know about the fact that Shawn was possibly dying, and that honestly been eating him up from the inside every time he looked at her. At least inside his mind he was able to begrudgingly admit that he thought of her as more than just a partner, but also a close friend. Hell, she was like family to him. More so than most of the family that he had and was still in touch with…but he couldn’t burden her with this.

They had just gotten back from raiding the warehouse and they’d found the drugs exactly where Shawn had said they were. The name on the bottles led back to Richards, but the problem was that the man had vanished. He hadn’t left the country, as they had a hold on his passport, but he still hadn’t been found.

Lassiter tapped his fingers against his desk and let out another frustrated sigh, and O’Hara suddenly spoke up.

“Uh, Carlton…I think I might have found something.”

He slowly stood up, in no rush, as he was fairly certain that it was nothing. They had been looking over things for hours, trying to figure out just where the hell their angel of death doctor was, and he held very little hope that she had found him so easily.

However, as he looked at what she’d found, he found himself grinning. Oh, she had _definitely_ found something.

He smiled and said, “O’Hara…you found something.”

“I did?”

Carlton nodded.

“Yep. See here?” he said, pointing to a signature on the screen. “That’s Richards’ handwriting. I took a course last year on identifying signifiers in handwriting and Richards does this thing with his ‘ch’ that he does right here in this fake name, Chase Braddock.” He leaned in a bit closer, and then added, “It looks like he’s been renting a storage space over at Hammond Storage.” He put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Let’s go get a warrant and nail this sonofabitch to a wall.”

He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and strode into the Chief’s office.

“Chief, we think we found evidence that Richards is renting a storage space under an assumed name. I need a judge to sign off on the warrant.”

She looked up from her paperwork, one eyebrow raised, and gave him a brief once over before saying, “If you’re sure, detective. I don’t want us going on a wild goose chase that isn’t going to lead us anywhere. The mayor is demanding we make progress soon, or he’ll hand it over to the local FBI.”

Lassiter nodded.

“I’m sure, Chief.”

She gave him a faint nod.

“Okay, then. I’ll get you your warrant.”

* * *

A half an hour later, Carlton was back at home, switching out his holster. They’d gotten the warrant, so they were going in. When he went on raids he preferred his shoulder holster that had the lower, easier access, but as he looked for it in its usual place, he noticed that it had been moved. Exactly an inch to the left of where it was normally positioned in the drawer. He hesitated before pulling it on over his shirt, and then wandered into the living room, where Shawn was lying on the couch on his back, engrossed in a comic.

He paused, but then said, impulsively, “Shawn, did you move my shoulder holster?”

He looked up from his comic and batted his eyes and said, “Why, whatever would give you that impression, Lassi-opolis?”

That was pretty much a confession. Rolling his eyes, Carlton let out a frustrated sigh and said, “Look, I get that we’re living together, now, but that doesn’t mean that you have the right to just go through my things whenever you feel like it. I take this kind of thing seriously, Shawn.”

However, he realized that his boyfriend wasn’t listening, despite the fact that he was staring straight at him. His eyes seemed to be locked in the direction of his shoulder. He moved slightly, and the fake psychic’s eyes followed, and Carlton quickly understood just what Shawn was looking at. His holster. Even though he knew that he had to leave, he couldn’t help but tease him and he flexed his shoulders as if he was stiff and then reached down to pick up the discarded comic that had slid to the floor.

Shawn’s eyes remained fixed on the holster.

The detective mentally snorted. Yes, his boyfriend apparently had a gun kink. Of course, Carlton wasn’t complaining.

Deciding to punish him before he left, he leaned in as he put the comic back in his hands and said, “You touch my things again, Shawn…I’ll handcuff you to the _bed_.” Shawn’s eyes widened slightly and he drew in a sharp breath. Lassiter smirked, and added, running a finger up the inside of the younger man’s left thigh, “And maybe… _maybe_ …if you’re really, _really_ good...” His breath became shallow and Lassiter could feel him shifting beneath his touch, trying to find some friction, but he pulled his hand back at the last second, gripping his thigh tightly, and hissed into his ear, “I’ll fuck you nice and slow.”

Shawn let out a gasp at the unexpected words, and Carlton finished him off by suddenly reaching down and cupping Shawn through his jeans, squeezing him slightly, and said, “This is mine.”

Spencer moaned, thrusting his hips into his hand, and said in a breathless voice, “You can’t just leave me like this, Carlton…please… _please…_ ”

He glanced at the clock. He didn’t have any time.

So instead, he leaned in one last time and said, his breath brushing against Shawn’s ear, “We’ll finish this later,” squeezed him one last time, and then stood up and walked out, smirking to himself as he left. Shawn teased him all the time; it was time for some payback. He had originally planned on following through, but at hearing the absolute _pleading_ in the fake psychic’s voice, he’d changed his mind at the last second. There was something satisfying about being the one on the giving end of such torture.

He threw on his coat as he got into his car, and then drove over to meet O’Hara at Hammond Storage, which was deserted.

After flashing their search warrant at a long-haired hippie manager (Lassiter’s words, not Juliet’s), they drove past the gate.

Normally, he would have needed a reminder on which number the unit was, but ever since Shawn had been teaching him how to lock in numbers with word associations (and other various tricks), he simply stalked down the rows, his female partner trailing behind him, making his way to unit number twenty-three.

“Key,” the head detective said, and she put it in his upturned hand. He slid the key into the lock and hissed, “Now, let’s see just what you’ve been hiding, you sick slime ball…”

The door slid up and they drew their weapons…and both of them lowered their guns and stared, not quite believing what they were seeing.

There were pictures plastered up on one side of the storage unit, and they recognized every single one of them. There were of each of the victims, along with papers filled with personal information on each one of them: addresses, phone numbers, family members, facebook accounts, Instagram and snapchat accounts…personal _schedules._ Carlton reached out and pulled off the picture of one of them from the wall. It had been their most recent victim, the blonde found on Fifth and Stratford, forty-two-year-old Lindsey Harrison. Wife to a banker and mother of two children, both in college.

The other half of the unit, on the other hand, had a desk that was relatively empty. Only a few empty pill bottles, a couple of blank prescription pads, and two or three sliced open packages covered the unmarked surface.

Juliet glanced over it and mused out loud, saying, “Looks like he might have expected us, Carlton. I’d venture that any money that might have been here and was linked to the purchases has been taken and scrubbed clean.” She picked up one of the torn, padded envelopes. “These had the money in them, I’d bet. Also, there aren’t any pills here, only empty bottles with the labels torn off,” she added, picking one up with a gloved hand and then throwing it into the trashcan. “He’s trying to cover his tracks.”

Lassiter nodded, still looking over the photos on the board, attempting to find a connection.

However, as Juliet sifted through the few pieces of paper on Richards’ desk, she suddenly went pale and her hand shook as she lifted something from one of the piles. From behind, Carlton could tell from the Kodak watermark on the back of the paper that it was a photo, and he brusquely asked, “What is it, O’Hara?”

Her hand shook slightly, and then she finally said, “Where was Shawn when you left?”

Confused at the question, his brow furrowed slightly as he replied, “At home, on the couch. Why are you…?”

His voice trailed as she handed the photo over to Lassiter. He paled when he saw it. It was a picture of Shawn. In _their_ apartment. There wasn’t a time stamp, but Lassiter didn’t need one. He remembered the outfit. Shawn had been wearing it yesterday. There was a red ‘x’ drawn violently over Spencer’s face.

“Shawn…”

Seeing that her partner was in shock, Juliet unclipped her radio from her belt and said, “This is Detective O’Hara. Send a unit over to Detective Lassiter’s apartment. Immediately!”

The instant she put her radio back, she walked over to him and tentatively reached out a hand and put it on his arm. However, the instant her fingers touched, instead of a violent reaction, one that she had certainly been expecting, as that was how Lassiter usually reacted to any sort of personal touch, he was scarily still.

“Carlton…?”

The older man let out a short breath of air, as if his lungs had been punctured, and he said, “It’s too late. I can feel it. That son of a bitch has him.”

She shook her head.

“No, it isn’t, Carlton. We’ll find Richards and put him down before he can even lay a _finger_ on Shawn. You hear me?” Juliet said, her voice firm and unwavering. “Shawn can handle himself if he has to, and I know that he didn’t make it easy for Richards if he got him. He’d put up one hell of a fight. You and I both know it.”

The detective didn’t even nod.

She squeezed his arm a second time and he suddenly turned his head and glared at her.

“If something happens to him…it’s on me.”

Juliet immediately went to correct him, but he cut her off, saying, “Shawn told me…shit. I can’t tell you everything, O’Hara, but I can tell you that I knew more than I said. And that I should have been honest with you from the beginning. There’s a lot you don’t know because you didn’t need to know it, but now…”

“Carlton, you’re not making any sense.”

He shook his head.

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

And with that, he pulled away and briskly walked out of the storage unit, Shawn’s picture crumpled in his right hand. Juliet’s brain finally caught up and she ran to catch up with his long, determined strides, knowing that her partner was emotionally compromised and would not be making the best decisions at that moment.

She was more than concerned at how he was acting, and knew that if he got to Richards first…well, it might not be the best thing in the world. Juliet was fairly certain that Shawn would not want to visit his boyfriend in prison for the rest of his life, and she had no overwhelming desire to see her partner behind bars. With that in mind, she caught up to him just in time to slide into the passenger’s side of his Crown Victoria. She waited to hear an objection, but he said nothing and ignored her as he put the car into reverse and swung a brutally swift and dangerously fast three point turn out of Hammond Storage.

Her hand shot up to the handle above her window and she thought about saying something to him as he turned on his siren, but at the sight of the grim expression on his face, she said nothing, and let him do eighty-five down suburban streets all the way to his apartment.

The instant they swung onto his street, he slowed down significantly. Seeing the other cop cars already out in front of his building seemed to sober his anger.

Juliet saw his expression turn from one of stern determination into one that she’d never actually seen on him before. Fear. The change was startling, to say the least. She had never seen any expression even close to that on Carlton, and it upset her more than she liked to admit. The head detective barely pulled himself out of the car, and then stumbled towards the front door, where he absentmindedly flashed his badge as he walked past one of the officers.

Juliet followed after him and then let out a pained expression when she saw him stumble as he hit the door to his apartment, leaning on the doorjamb for support.

He was staring wide-eyed at his apartment, which was much different than when he’d left it only thirty minutes before.

The door had been kicked in and one of his lamps was on the hardwood, half of the light green stained glass shattered. The leather couch was moved slightly to the side and one of Lassiter’s guns was on the floor. A bullet was lodged in the base of the fireplace and already had a yellow tag next to it, a black number three looking back at him mockingly.

There was a smear of red on the rug, a number two already tagged next to it as a young CSI took photos.

“This is my fault,” he said a second time, and Juliet immediately reprimanded him, almost growling out, “No, Carlton. It’s not. Richards was the one to choose his own actions, so it is _entirely_ on him, so don’t you _dare_ go around acting like you’ve already killed Shawn, when I _know_ that we’re going to get him back!”

She walked around in front of him, staring him in the eye, blue meeting blue.

“Do you hear me? We’re getting him back.”

He faintly nodded, and was about to respond when Vick suddenly walked in and said, “I know I can’t take you off this case, so I’m only going to ask you do to one thing, Detective.” He gave her a vacant expresion. “Bring him home.” Carlton nodded a second time, his eyes going sharp at her words, a fire burning in them once more.

Juliet grinned when she heard him snap out, “McNabb! Rush the bloodwork, we need to know which one of them was injured so we know how to approach the situation. If Richards was hurt, we can use it to our advantage.”

“Yes, sir!”

“O’Hara!”

“Yes, Head Detective?” she said, giving him a small, but proud smile.

He gave her a faint smirk at hearing her address him so formally, and then said, “Look into any other properties claimed under his alias, Chase Braddock. I’d bet anything he’ll go to where he’s keeping the drugs, so look at buildings in the lower income neighborhoods and check for listings near the docks. I’ll check to see if there’s any surveillance from my building’s security that can give us a lead as to which direction he went. He hasn’t done this before with any of his other victims which means he was probably sloppy and slipped up. Let’s find out how, and get SBPD’s best asset home.”

Juliet’s grin widened. They would find Shawn; she was certain of it.

 

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Shawn groaned, rolling over onto his side. He was on cold concrete and had a painful throbbing in his shoulder, a feeling that he’d felt only once before: the last time he’d been kidnapped. He’d been shot. Plus, his wrists were tied. Those two things added up to one outcome: he’d been kidnapped. Again. Lassi would not be happy about this, of that he was certain.

“Good, you’re awake. Now I can properly threaten you.”

Shawn attempted to roll his eyes, but his vision swam and he knew that he most likely had a concussion; a nice little treat to top off the sundae of pain.

However, he managed to weakly quip back, “Actually, when I was out would have been the best time. If you ask anyone that knows me, I have a tendency to make the conversation all about me, but I’m okay with that. I’ve accepted it as an acceptable character flaw.”

Richards kicked him in the stomach and the fake psychic rolled to his back, letting out a grunt of pain and coughed. He felt something warm and wet on his lips. He reached up with shaky hands and swallowed nervously when he saw that it was blood. Great. Internal bleeding, probably due to the ribs that weren’t where they were supposed to be. He’d never had broken ribs before, but he knew what it was supposed to feel like, and since he was fairly certain that those weren’t knives inside of him at extremely uncomfortable angles, then, yes, he had broken ribs.

He slowly sat up, wincing and making plenty of noise, and Richards reached down and grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt.

“And where do you think you’re going?” he hissed, and Shawn gave him a look.

“Well, you see, I kinda gotta get back home,” he said, being slightly serious, but also incredibly flippant, “My detective boyfriend has this problem when people take his stuff. And since you grabbed _me_ , that’s kind of the same thing. Plus, he has a gun and anger issues, mainly with squirrels, but also with disgusting lowlifes like you.”

Richards pulled back, giving him a look, and then said, “Detective boyfriend? Who’s your…”

“ _Head_ Detective Carlton Lassiter, SBPD. He loves it when I use his full title, by the way,” Shawn added.

The doctor suddenly became agitated and that’s when the psychic saw two things. One, he had blood on the arm of his shirt, and from the looks of it, it was from a bullet graze. Second…he had a gun. Shit. That changed things. He couldn’t do much physically to save himself, being injured, but he _could_ do one thing. Talk. As a matter of fact, that was something that he was _very_ good at, so he was going to have to milk it for everything.

“So,” he said, beginning his stall. “I have to ask. Why?”

Richards glared at him, his gun hand lowering slightly.

“Why what?”

Shawn weakly gestured with his bound hands, saying, “Why go after people who aren’t actually sick? Why give them symptoms through drugs and then make them think that they needed more drugs? Why slowly kill them? What…what kind of sicko do you have to be to enjoy watching people slowly commit their own suicide without knowing it? Also, which is cuter: puppies or kittens?”

The doctor hit him in the back of the head with the gun and Shawn gave out an involuntary cry of pain. Right. Don’t antagonize the man holding the gun. _Are you_ trying _to get yourself killed? He already shot you!_ said a voice in the back of his head that sounded remarkably like Carlton’s. He took a deep breath and swallowed, trying to ignore the metallic taste in the back of his throat. It was a dark reminder of just how screwed he really was, and he couldn’t focus on that; he had to focus on stalling for time. Carlton would find him.

Richards glanced down at him, and then muttered, almost to himself, “They deserved it.”

“Uh, what was that?”

He turned to hit him a second time, but the fake psychic managed to lift his hands and quickly add, “Look, I genuinely want to know! I’m not being flippant or sarcastic or any other kind of humor that might get me killed within the next ten seconds! I just…I just wanna know… _why._ ”

The doctor hesitated and then said, “Well…somebody should know besides me. Maybe, once you hear my side, you’ll understand why I had to do it.”

Shawn simply nodded, and the doctor continued.

“I had a patient, back when I was practicing at the hospital, who had two years, at most, to live. Lung cancer. With a new treatment, he could have possibly ten more years, so I told him about it…and he refused.” He paused, and then his eyes went dark as he said, “You know what he said to me? ‘God chose this for me, so I will accept it with grace.’” He let out a bitter laugh. “The man chose it for himself! He’d been a chronic smoker since he was a teenager and he had signed his own death warrant the _first_ time he picked up a cigarette! He had the chance to push back the clock, and he didn’t. I’ve met a lot of people who think that God is the one who chooses when they die, but that’s not true. _They_ do!”

He began to wave his gun hand around, jabbing it into the air for emphasis.

“So, when I had patients try and refuse treatment, I forced their pills on them, trying to give them a chance to _save_ their own lives. When I had my medical license revoked for ‘a breach of ethics’, I was beyond pissed, and I knew that the only way to get anything done was to do it myself. I wanted to show that people who thought they had something to live for would do _any_ thing to save themselves…even take drugs from a questionable source.”

He moved closer to Shawn, nudging the toe of his boot into the psychic’s ribs, and the younger man let out a sound similar to that of a wounded animal. Shit. That _really_ hurt.

Richards then kneeled down, his gun almost casually dangling from his fingertips, and he said, “The first one was a man who thought he had a simple stomach problem. It was only an ulcer, but it was easy to convince him it was stomach cancer. He came to me for drugs, and I gladly provided them. But, it only took him a week before he croaked. Not long enough. The second one was even easier to convince. A hypochondriac. She was convinced she had a brain tumor. The drugs I gave her took her a bit longer, two and a half weeks. But still…not quite long enough. Round three was Lindsey Harrison. She was the one that gave me hope. She lasted _three months._ ”

Richards suddenly pressed the nose of the gun into Shawn’s neck and hissed, “And then there was _you._ I snuck into the hospital, checked on your file…and saw that you were the perfect candidate. So, when you refused, I was angry. I was gonna write you off. But then,” he pressed the gun harder, “You _refilled the prescription._ ”

He pulled the gun away and Shawn let out a sigh of relief. Too soon, as the gun was now pressed against his knee.

“When you did that, I decided to…tweak…my method. I worked with the nerve agent, seeing how low I could get the dosage. How long I could make you suffer.” He pressed the barrel into his knee, and Shawn visibly flinched. “The novichok-5 was perfect. I had it in an extremely low dosage, so it perfectly coincided with all of the symptoms of MPNST. The muscle weakness,” he jabbed it in his thigh. “The nausea.” His stomach this time. “The memory loss.” Now at his temple.

For once, Shawn prayed that Lassiter put a bullet in the guy that was holding him hostage.

Richards then stood back up and dragged the fake-psychic with him, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. The man didn’t weigh much more than he did, but he had a good three inches on him, so it didn’t take him too much effort to haul him to his feet.

“What…what I don’t get,” Shawn breathed, nearly tripping over his own feet as Richards dragged him over to what seemed to be the center of the warehouse. “Is why…you picked…me…”

The doctor pulled on a metal chain and another chain dropped from the ceiling. He then tucked the gun into his waistband and then hauled Shawn’s wrists over his head and hooked him to the chain, while Shawn tried, and failed, to not cry out in agony as his ribs were forced to dig deeper into his already bleeding body and his shoulder screamed as a lancing fire shot straight through it, where he now knew the bullet was still lodged.

“I picked you,” Richards said casually, as if he _wasn’t_ stringing up Shawn like a piece of meat in a freezer, “Because of your personality type. Vain.”

He jabbed the gun into his back.

“I picked you because you cave in at the first sign of pain and any sort of pressure. I saw your medical history. You kept the painkillers from your motorcycle accident over seven years ago _not_ because you were in _pain_ …but because you were _addicted_ to feeling _good._ ” He jabbed him once more time for good measure, smiling when he heard Shawn let out another whimper. “It was that fucking easy.”

Struggling to control his breathing, Shawn managed to gasp, “If I was so addicted, Wendell, then why did I…stop…taking them…nearly…a week ago?”

Richards paused, but then he shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s been in your system long enough to actually cause some permanent damage…of course, the bullet I put in your skull will most definitely be the _last_ permanent damage you’ll receive.”

Shawn attempted to smirk and say, “Not the best villain quote ever,” but the quip got caught after the first syllable, as they both heard voices outside the warehouse. Straining, Shawn could hear the sounds of police radios, and he knew that Lassiter was out there. He’d found him. Thank god, because Shawn was no longer able to stall as he was now physically incapable of talking.

As if knowing he was caged, Richards got behind the psychic and put one hand on his shoulder, while his other hand had the gun pointed straight against his neck.

The main door broke open.

Lassiter came storming in, S.W.A.T right behind him, Juliet standing next to him. His eyes were as hard as steel…but the instant they landed on Spencer, something in them wavered, and both Shawn and Dr. Richards could see it. Richards took advantage of it.

“Looks like I’ve got your boy,” he said in a sing-song, sounding as manic as he’d been acting. “So…what’re you gonna do about it?”

Lassiter’s hands shook for a mere second, and then steadied as he replied, “Put a bullet in your brain, you sicko.”

“Funny, that’s what your _boyfriend_ called me! You two really are in love, aren’t you?”

At this, Lassiter practically fumbled his gun, and Juliet stepped up in front of him, her hands steady and sure. She squared off, her eyes only glancing at Shawn once, and then focusing once more on the doctor. They both knew that Carlton was in no condition to be pointing a gun anywhere in Shawn’s direction. Not in his current emotional state.

Her voice was solid as she said, “Killing him doesn’t help you, doctor. In fact, if you shoot him, you won’t even walk out of here alive. Of that, I am _certain_.” She tried to make eye contact with Shawn, to see if he was alright, but his eyes had drifted close, and she recognized the signs of his body going into shock. Richards still held the gun to Shawn’s neck. “If you put down the gun,” she continued, “Then we can discuss terms. We can see what kind of deal we can get you.”

At this, Richards snorted and pressed the barrel of the gun harder into Shawn’s neck, causing him to open his eyes.

“Deal. Yeah, right. We all know they’ll never give me a deal. Let’s see, now,” he added, his voice going bitter. “There’s the selling and possession of illegal drugs, the use of a chemical nerve agent, oh, _murder_ , though one could argue it was really suicide, and, of course, the piece de resistance…kidnapping and attempted first degree murder of an officer. No. I’m not getting any deal.”

At this, Lassiter looked at him and raised his gun once more, stepping in front of his partner.

“You’re right,” he said, looking Richards dead in the eye. “There’s no way you’re getting a deal.”

“Carlton--!”

He cut Juliet off and took a step closer.

“No judge or jury in the land will ever accept anything you did as anything other than cold, calculated murder. So, here are your options, _Wendell_ ,” he sneered out. Spencer had taught him that one. People of importance detested the use of first names; it made them feel inferior and less important.  “You could shoot him, and we could shoot you...or you could let him go, and we’ll still shoot you.”

“Doesn’t sound like a choice,” the doctor said, subconsciously gesturing with the hand holding the gun. Lassiter’s eyes watched it like a hawk.

“That’s cause it isn’t.”

He began to speak, “Well, I don’t see how I-” he started to say, motioning with his gun hand once more, and Carlton didn’t hesitate and squeezed the trigger, the bullet hitting its’ target. Right through the head. Richards’ body dropped like a stone, and Lassiter immediately handed his weapon off to O’Hara and he rushed to his boyfriend’s side, carefully taking him down from the chain holding him up.

Shawn’s eyes finally opened all the way and he let out a muffled scream as Lassiter took him down as gently as possible, while O’Hara called in an ambulance.

“You…you…took the shot,” he gasped out, blood on his lips, and Carlton tried not to show the mounting fear that was steadily growing within him, and instead untied the ropes at his wrists and replied, in a vain attempt at humor, “Yeah, well, you’d already been shot, so one more bullet wouldn’t have hurt you if I’d missed. Might’ve even deflated your ego.”

Shawn chuckled and then began to choke.

Lassiter felt a hot tear escape and slide down his cheek. He ignored it and yelled, “O’Hara, where is that damn ambulance?!”

“Any second now, Carlton!”

She rushed over to them, after having made sure that the scene was secure, and knelt down beside them, her eyes going wide as she saw just how bad her friend’s injuries were. Unsure of what to do, she reached out and put a hand over Carlton’s hands, where they were resting over Shawn’s.

Just as she was about to say something, they heard the sirens and S.W.A.T directed the EMT’s over to where they were, and then summarily brushed to the side as they attempted to stabilize him and get him onto a stretcher. Both Juliet and Lassiter stood and followed at a brisk pace as their psychic was taken to the ambulance, nearly on the heels of them, neither of them willing to leave his side.

As they put him into the ambulance, Juliet shoved her partner towards it.

“You need to go with him.”

Carlton hesitated.

“But, I’m not fam--”

She cut him off and glared at him, shoving him a second time, almost yelling just to be heard over the blare of the sirens, “Dammit, Carlton, you’re the best family that he’s ever had, so get in the ambulance, or so help me, I will shoot you and you will be in a stretcher alongside him!”

At that, he simply nodded, and got into the back of the ambulance.

Juliet stared after the red and white lights as they disappeared down the road, and then pulled out her cell phone. Someone had to tell Henry. Looked like it was going to be her.

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Henry and Gus rushed to the hospital, having both gotten the call from Juliet at roughly the same time. As soon as they stepped inside, Henry lead the charge to the desk.

“Shawn Spencer, bullet wound, multiple rib fractures, where is he?”

The woman behind the desk slowly lowered her glasses and drawled out, “Is that spelled S-e-a-n, or S-h-a-u-n?”

Gus glared at her and snapped, “Seriously? It’s spelled like it sounds, S-h-a-w-n, Shanikqua, with a damn k and a q! Now, where the hell is my friend?” At that, she stood…and Gus tried not to take a step back. She towered over him by four inches. Gus quickly backpedaled. “Uh, by where the hell is my friend, I meant, would you be so kind as to let me know where he is located?”

Shawn’s father rolled his eyes, and was just about to snap out a response, as he was un-intimidated by the nurse, but then Juliet appeared just down the hall, slightly out of breath, and said, “Gus, Henry, he’s upstairs in surgery. You can follow me.”

Giving a curt nod to the nurse, Gus followed, his worry about his friend growing when he saw the look of concern on Juliet’s face. Henry kept pace with them, and the instant all three of them were on the elevator, he turned to Juliet and began to grill her. However, she put up a hand and stopped him.

“Before you drown me with redundant questions, just wait until we get upstairs. I only know the basics; Shawn was shot, he has some fractured ribs. Carlton has the real information, alright?”

Though slightly upset, Henry nodded, as did Gus, and they remained silent for the rest of the elevator ride.

As soon as they stepped off the elevator, however, Spencer senior spotted the Head Detective, and walked briskly over to him, not even catching his breath before asking, “What happened?”

Carlton hesitated, and Henry wanted to snap at him, but then he said, “Apparently, Richards was keeping tabs on Spencer. When he realized we were on to him, he decided to clean up his mess, which included our resident psychic. When I left to go raid one of the warehouses, he broke into our apartment and took Spencer, shooting him in the process…” He paused, and then continued. “During the fight, he sustained several injuries, including a concussion, eight fractured ribs, and ten broken ribs, which caused severe internal bleeding.”

Juliet gasped, bringing a hand to her mouth.

“Ten… _ten_ broken ribs?”

Lassiter nodded, not making eye contact with any of them, staring down the hallway. His voice was steady, practically cold, as if he was delivering a report.

“The bullet nicked the subclavian artery, which was why he passed out, due to internal blood loss. They’re currently trying to stop the bleeding, which they have to do before they can do any other surgery. He has AB negative. They don’t know if they have enough for a full transfusion…”

His voice cracked on the last word and he suddenly stopped talking.

Juliet took a step forward, carefully putting her hand on his arm…and he suddenly collapsed into the chair he was standing in front of. Lassiter dropped his head and his shoulders began to shake and she knew that he was crying. Cautiously, she knelt down on the floor and put her hands over top of his and said, “He’ll be okay, Carlton. He’ll be--”

He violently threw her hands away from him and stood back up, his eyes blazing, and he cut her off, hissing out, “How the hell do you know, O’Hara?”

He now glared at her, his jaw clenched, his fists tight…but she could see a faint trail on his cheek. He was angry and he was scared. She knew the feeling. But she also knew that her partner had never experienced it before. Taking initiative, she grabbed his hand a second time and didn’t let him let go.

“I know because Shawn is a _fighter_ , Carlton.”

He winced and then said, “Please stop using my first name.” Juliet was confused, and he quickly said, “Every time you say it all I can hear is Shaw…” He couldn’t get out the last letter of his name. Instead, he let out a strangled, choking sound, turning away from the three of them, bringing a hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the sounds. Juliet had never seen him so distraught.

She stood back up and looked to Henry and Gus. Gus was, of course, quietly sympathetically crying, but Henry was impossible to read. He stood there, hands in his pockets, staring at Lassiter’s back, his face inscrutable. She gestured towards him. Henry was a lot like her partner in the way he dealt with emotions: he mainly kept them inside, and never expressed them, so when they did come out, they were usually volatile and explosive. She needed him to handle it.

The elder Spencer walked towards the detective and put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Lassiter.”

He stiffened at the touch, so he dropped his hand.

“You’re mad. You’re pissed. And you’re terrified he’s not gonna make it out. I get that.” He stopped, and then added with a tense voice, “When Shawn was in his motorcycle accident, I remember how it felt when I thought that he had been killed. I kept it all inside, and I took it out on him for years. Don’t handle it the way I did. Let it out now. We won’t judge you.”

Gus sniffled a little too loudly, causing both Henry and Juliet to glare at him, but then Lassiter’s head lifted and he slightly turned.

Carlton took a deep breath and replied, “When I’m upset or angry, or even depressed…I shoot things. But this…this is different.” He locked eyes with his partner and she gave him a faint nod, encouraging him to continue. He did. “He’s become…important. To me. I can’t lose him. Not after…”

He stopped and slowly sat back down in the chair, his hands still sporadically clenching, as if he was wrapping his fingers around an invisible gun. Henry knew the signs and simply backed up and sat down a few chairs away. He finally brought his hands together and clenched them tight, his knuckles almost going white with the effort.

Juliet sat down next to him and thought about reaching over to hold his hands still, but then decided against it. She had never been through anything like her partner was going through, so she wasn’t going to presume to try and reassure him. She knew that anything she did might cause him to snap back in anger, when what he needed was to deal with his emotions in the right way. She knew that she would only get in the way of any of that happening.

Gus came and sat down next to her, and said, through a few rogue sniffles, “Shawn will pull through. I know it.”

Juliet nodded, as did Henry.

“Yeah, Gus. I’m sure he will,” she softly replied.

They exchanged less than heartfelt smiles, and then proceeded to feel awkward, all three of them unsure of how to handle Lassiter slowly becoming more silent. Finally, unable to take the silence, Henry stood up and said, “Anybody want something to eat? Or some coffee? I’m paying.”

Lassiter shook his head, as did Gus, but Juliet stood and said, “Sure. I’ll go with you,” and they walked down the hall to the vending machines.

As they stood in front of the snack machine, Henry with his hands in his pockets, Juliet with her arms crossed over her chest, they could both hear what the other wanted to say. Finally, unable to take it any longer, Juliet snapped.

“It’s just not fair!” she hissed out, a tear finally escaping and leaving a wet trail down her cheek. “The two of them, they finally…for the first time I’ve known either of them, they seemed happy, and now it’s all…” She gestured with one hand and brought it to her mouth to stifle her sobs. Henry, not bothering with the machine, pulled her to him, and held her for a moment, awkwardly patting her on the shoulder, letting her let it all out.

As soon as she got herself under control, she pulled away, running her fingers under her eyes, saying, “God, I feel like a mess. Sorry about that, Henry. It’s just…not fair.”

He nodded.

“Yeah, I know. I mean,” he added as he pulled out his wallet and two dollar bills, turning to face the vending machine once more, “I don’t understand how the hell it works, my son and Carlton Lassiter, but whatever it is, it’s turned Shawn more into the man that I’ve always known he could be.” He pressed D6. A Snickers bar fell to the bottom. He bent over and pulled it out. “I’m trying not to think about the fact that he’s lying on a table all cut open by doctors who are trying to save his life. That he’s got a bullet in his shoulder and severe internal bleeding that may or not be stopped. I _can’t_ think about it.”

Henry handed Juliet a dollar, and she held it in her hand, but stared at the snacks absently, still sniffing, not really seeing any of them through her blurred vision. After a moment, she nodded and replied, “My mind keeps on going through what-ifs. What if I had waited to call Carlton, what if the warrant had taken just a little bit longer and he’d been home to stop Richards. What if Shawn had come with him…?”

She choked back another sob, but just as Henry was about to say something, Gus suddenly stepped between her and the machine and started noisily putting in quarters.

“C’mon F3, gimme my PayDay, please don’t fail me now!”

Henry shot a glare in the younger man’s direction, but didn’t bother to say a word. As soon as Gus had retrieved his candy bar and left to go back to the waiting room, Henry put his hand on her shoulder and said, “What-ifs aren’t gonna help you, right now. They’ll only make it worse. Deal with each moment as it comes. That’s the only way to do it.”

And with that, he left and went back to the waiting room.

Juliet looked at the vending machine. She put in the dollar. She hit A4. The machine wound and the Milky Way she was trying to get suddenly stopped halfway through. Seriously? She stared at it, thinking about hitting it. Instead, she halfheartedly kicked at the machine…but then gave up. Just as she was about to walk away however, Lassiter walked over. He saw the bar stuck inside…and he suddenly punched the machine hard enough that the bar fell down to the bottom, but Juliet ignored it at the sickening crunch she had just heard.

“Lassiter…!”

He pulled his hand back and then reached down with his other hand and retrieved her bar, handing it to her, and she shoved it into her pocket as she turned all of her attention onto his hand.

His knuckle was popped at an odd angle and she wanted to throw up, but instead she got the attention of the nearest nurse, who popped the joint back into place and proceeded to wrap it up with a stern warning to not try and do anything that stupid again. He mutely nodded.

When they got back to the waiting room, Juliet glared at her partner and tried not to yell as she said, “What were you thinking?!”

He collapsed into the chair, just like before…but this time he actually cried; horrible, ugly sobs that shook his whole lanky, six-foot-one frame. Juliet gave a pointed look towards Henry and Gus, who both discreetly got up and walked down the hall, leaving her to deal with it.

Through gasping sobs, he said, “He…he’s on a table…with his chest cut open…and I can’t…I can’t….shit. Fuck, Juliet, why does it feel like I’m the one with my chest open? Why does…why does it…”

“Hurt so much?” she supplied, and Lassiter nodded, and she just gave him a sad, desperate look. “Well, Carl-, sorry, Lassiter,” she quickly corrected herself, remembering how he’d reacted earlier to her saying his first name. “He’s a part of your life, now. He’s a part of your…your identity. So it hurts.”

“But this, this is…god. I never felt this way before. I mean, there’s no when he comes out, it’s all just nothing until he comes out of there and I know he’s okay. I…god, I think I love him…”

She looked at him, suddenly feeling a gut wrenching feeling of her own. He’d never told Shawn. Hell, now that she looked at it, she’d bet her entire salary that neither of them had ever said the words to each other. Shit. No wonder he was so miserable. Talk about a bad time to realize you were in love with someone. When they were on an operating table, fighting for their life.

Unsure of how to respond, she put her hand on his shoulder and gently squeezed it.

He put his hand over top of hers and returned the gesture. By this point, Henry and Gus had wandered back to the waiting room, both of them with two cups of coffee. Gus handed her one, and Henry gave Lassiter’s his. For the next two hours, they sat there. Waiting.

…and then the doctor walked in.

Lassiter shot to his feet, as did Henry and Gus, and was the first to ask, “How is he?”

The doctor gave him a steady look and replied with a slight southern drawl, “We got the bullet out and we managed to stop the bleeding,” and they all let out sighs of relief. All of them except for Lassiter.

“But?”

The doctor hesitated, and then continued, “ _But_ it looks like the ribs are pretty severely damaged. They, miraculously, did _not_ shatter, and all of the cartilage is still intact. However, it did cause several deep punctures to the lungs, so it will require extensive surgery to put things back to where they’re supposed to be. He’s undergoing a transfusion, and then the next operation to set the bones will take approximately five to seven hours. There’s not much you can do here besides wait, so I suggest you go home for the time being.”

As soon as he said those words, Juliet knew that Lassiter would have to be dragged kicking and screaming from the hospital before that happened.

“Of course, doctor,” she said, answering for him. “That’s probably for the best.”

She dragged Lassiter away, even as he hissed, “I’m _not_ going home, not while Shawn is still on the table,” and she quickly reassured him with, “I know, which is why I’ll stop by your place and get permission from the CSI’s to go in and grab some clothes for you and Shawn. You can stay here.”

He nodded.

“Good. Because I’m staying.”

She let go of his arm and gave him a faint nod, and replied, “I know you are. I’ll be back, soon, alright?”

He didn’t respond. He was looking back down the hall that the doctor had just disappeared down.

It was going to be a hellish seven hours.

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

The head detective stood outside his boyfriend’s hospital room. He was awake and Henry and Gus were already inside, and Lassiter remembered the last time Spencer had been in a hospital. That was how the whole thing started, after all. How their whole relationship had begun. One damn case. It had been nearly four months ago, and now Lassiter was standing outside his room once again. This time, though, he was terrified.

O’Hara startled him by stepping up next to him, and saying, “Are you gonna go in?”

He gave her a sideways look and dug his hands deeper into his pockets.

“I’m not sure if he wants me in there.”

His partner looked at him, her eyes wide, and she let out a laugh of disbelief and said, “You’re an idiot, Lassiter, if that’s what you think.” He tried to interject, but she cut him off with, “It’s obvious to everyone who knows him that he’s completely in love with you, even if he’s never said it. You two are _living_ together, for crying out loud! Go in there and make it right.”

She walked away, and Lassiter stared after her for a moment, and then looked back through the window, where he could see Gus looking angry, Shawn grinning, and Henry giving his son a disapproving look. He wanted to go in, but how could he ever be a part of that world of his? Even as close as they’d gotten, it absolutely paralyzed him to think that he would ever know him as well as his father or his best friend would. If he stepped into that room, he would say all of the wrong things. He just knew it.

However, O’Hara’s words rang in his ears.

_Go in there and make it right._

He let out the breath he’d been holding. Okay. Make it right. He could do this.

Reluctantly, he opened the door and rapped his knuckles on the door jamb.

“Mind if come in?”

“Lassi!” cried Spencer, beaming at him from where he was propped up against his pillow. “I was wondering when you were gonna drop by! Lemme guess…” He raised a finger to his head and winced slightly as the motion tugged on his stitches, and then said, “I am divining that there was paperwork involved with the shooting, and that you were also detained by a petite, vivaciously pretty bottle-blonde. Am I right?”

The detective snorted and rolled his eyes.

“You do realize everyone in this room knows you’re not psychic, right?”

Shawn threw him a toothy grin, and nodded.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean it still isn’t fun.”

Gus gave his friend a look, and then made a small nod in Henry’s direction, and they both headed for the door. Gus already gone, Henry stopped for a moment and put his hand on Lassiter’s shoulder and said lowly into his ear, “Whatever you say, don’t break his heart.” Lassiter swallowed and nodded. The man left.

Finally, now that it was just the two of them, he felt slightly less self-conscious. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Shawn press the button for the morphine drip. Trying to keep his annoyance from showing, he swallowed a second time and then tucked his hands back into his pockets once more; a nervous habit he’d never grown out of.

Lassiter stepped closer to the bed and was surprised when Spencer reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly, his voice a bit dopey from the drugs as he said, “I missed you, Lassi. And…and I’m sorry you had to shoot him.”

He shrugged and tilted his head and replied, “Oh, I would have shot the scumbag anyway. He hurt you, after all.” He gave his boyfriend a look, trying not to visibly wince at seeing the bruising around his left eye and seeing the IV sticking out of the back of his hand. He knew that underneath the blanket, he was beyond bruised and stitched up, and it made him sick to his stomach to think that he was part of the reason he’d been injured. Lassiter tightened his jaw and added, “The doctor says you were lucky.”

Spencer grinned.

“Aren’t I always? As lucky as John McClane on Christmas Eve. Anyway, I’ve got you,” he quipped, lifting Lassiter’s hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “My knight in shining armor. With a Glock 22 instead of a sword, but you get the idea. Taking down my monsters. Like werewolves. Ooh, maybe you could get silver bullets!”

Lassiter wrenched away his hand and hissed, “You don’t get it, do you, Spencer?”

His typically bright eyes turned subdued and the detective continued.

“You could have _died_ on that operating table, they almost didn’t have enough for a transfusion, and all you can do is joke?!” He turned towards the window and shoved his hands into his pockets once more. “You were kidnapped and tortured, all because some guy thought you were a goddamn science experiment and all you can do is…!”

He couldn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t know why he was so angry. His fingers once more clenched around an invisible gun, and he tried to calm himself down long enough to not yell.

Finally, he whispered out, “We nearly lost you.”

He looked back at the fake psychic, who was giving him an all too serious look, one that he was not accustomed to seeing, and he turned the rest of the way around, trying to figure out what his boyfriend was going to say. There was a long uncomfortable silence…and then he spoke up, his finger easing up on the morphine button.

“Lassi…Carlton. Can you drop the we? I mean, we’re living together. I know that you’re the one who’s the most worried. And you have every right to be pissed.” He paused, and then sat up, and Carlton visibly tensed as he did, wincing when Shawn let out a long hiss of pain. “I just…I’m sorry you got stuck with me.” Lassiter’s eyes shot up to his. “I mean, I’ve put you in the worst position ever, compromising your whole uphold-the-law-in-every-word-and-deed attitude, and I know that forcing you to lie to Vick and Jules is--”

He cut him off before he could finish.

“You think I care about any of that right now, Spencer?! After…after _everything_ that has just happened?!”

“Uh…yeah? Why else would you be so pissed at me?”

Lassiter laughed, incredulous, and then said, “Because you nearly died and it was my fault.” He moved closer to the bed and sat on the edge of it. “And because I love you, you idiot.”

At this, Shawn’s face lit up and he started to reply, but Carlton cut him off by leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Startled, but pleased, the younger man tilted his head and encouraged the kiss, both of them taking their time and making it last. Eventually, they both pulled back, and Shawn said in a breathless voice, “Well, I love you, too.”

“Good.”

His voice was gruff and he almost seemed annoyed from the way that the younger man tangled his fingers with his, and he rolled his eyes, but from the way one of his fingers absently caressed the inside of his wrist, Shawn knew that he wasn’t as upset as he seemed.

After a moment or two, Shawn whispered, “I, uh, have good news.” He looked over at him, his lips still pursed in a straight line. “I talked with the doctor, the _real_ doctor, and I, uh…don’t have any disease. I mean, I have some leftover problems from the drugs Richards was giving me,” he amended quickly, “But he said those will go away fairly quickly.”

Lassiter said nothing, and simply stared at him, his eyes unreadable. He held onto his fingers tightly. He stayed silent for an uncomfortable amount of time. Shawn soon wondered if telling him had been the wrong decision. Because he wasn’t sick, his old fears resurged. Lassi didn’t want him anymore, even though he’d just confessed his love. It had been an impulse, when, in truth, he was about to tell Shawn that he was going to tell the chief about the fact that he wasn’t actually psychic and—

Before his brain could go any further along that particular train of thought, however, Carlton said stiffly, “I almost lost you once. I’m not doing it again.”

He looked him straight in the eye, blue eyes meeting green, and Shawn nearly stopped breathing at the dark intensity he saw reflected back at him. He wanted to say something witty, something funny, something nonsensical…hell, a single syllable of a word would have preferable than the heavily weighted silence that now lingered.

Finally, he managed, “Well…that’s good…I guess?”

Lassiter nearly pulled his hand away, scowling, but then growled out, “I don’t care that you’re not psychic. I don’t care that you’re not sick. What I _do_ care about, for reasons that I still can’t comprehend…is you.” He loosened his grip slightly. “And if that means taking care of you and keeping you under surveillance twenty-four seven until you get better, then so be it.”

At this, Shawn immediately protested.

“Okay, seriously? It’s not like I could actually _go_ anywhere!” He tried to move and winced, hissing as he tried to sit up. “See? I can’t even fucking move without practically stabbing myself in the chest! Don’t really think I’m a flight risk, Lassi-ass.”

No sympathy in his eyes, he glared at him and said in the same growl, “I don’t care, Spencer. Do you have any idea how long you were on that table with your chest cut open? Do you have any idea the _hell_ that everyone has gone through?” He reached out and placed firm fingers on his leg. “It’s not about you, or even them, anymore. It’s about _us._ ” He gave him a long look, and Shawn’s eyes widened slightly as he realized just what his boyfriend meant.

He drew in a sharp breath and said, “You really mean it, don’t you?” Lassiter looked confused, but then Shawn reached down and grabbed his hand and said, “I mean, the whole ‘I love you’ wasn’t just some sort of pity thing because I’m in the hospital, you…you really mean it…”

Carlton’s brow furrowed.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Spencer let out a shaky breath and reached for the button, but Carlton stopped him with a hand on his wrist and a stern look.

“Shawn…why wouldn’t I mean it?”

He opened his mouth a couple of times, and Lassiter could see that he was attempting to say something to lighten the mood, anything to dispel the tension in the air between them, so he cut him off with, “Don’t make a joke out of this, Shawn. Please,” and the fake psychic stopped and seemed to compose himself, before finally saying a small voice, “No one’s ever meant it before…”

And that was when it hit him. In an instant, Carlton Lassiter was finally able to see the Shawn Spencer that he’d thought he’d already seen…but never so clearly. He saw the lonely genius who felt isolated, who had people who never truly knew who he was because he was constantly putting on a mask, a show, to make everyone else feel good about themselves. His own feelings were an afterthought. He was someone who had never heard anyone, besides his parents, say I love you to this side of him. The side of him without a mask.

Feeling an uncharacteristic surge of emotion, he swallowed nervously and licked his lips. And then he said, “Yes, Shawn. I mean it.”

The younger man’s eyes were wet with unshed tears, and then one finally escaped, along with a broken sob, and Lassiter moved closer and let him put his head on his shoulder, tears now falling freely, and through his tears, he heard him say, “God, I love you, Carlton…”

The detective had been stiff the entire time, ever since he’d walked into the room, but the instant he heard the naked, open honesty in Spencer’s voice, something inside of him came unwound, and his whole body gave in. He drew a hand up to Spencer’s hair, running his fingers through it, and he muttered, “I love you, Shawn.”

They stayed like that for a long time, until Spencer pulled back and looked up at him with a watery smile and said wetly, “I just went all Sixteen Candles on you, didn’t I?”

Lassiter shook his head.

“I’d say more Officer and a Gentleman,” he quipped back, and at that Shawn laughed…and then winced.

“Okay, hand me those drugs,” he groaned out, snatching it from where it lay next to his boyfriend’s leg. He pressed his thumb firmly on the blue button and let out a small sigh. “Ah, morphine. Makes all things nice and shiny.”

Lassiter snorted.

“Yeah, well, don’t get too used to it. As soon as I can, I’m getting you out of this hospital and into our bed.”

Shawn’s eyebrow shot up at that, and he drawled out, “Ooh, you promise?”

Carlton rolled his eyes.

“Not like _that,_ Spencer. I want to keep a close eye on you and keep you away from flirting with the nurses, which you _will_ do if you’re constantly pressing that button,” he added, pulling it out of his grip, slightly worried that he might overdose with how heavy fingered he was with it. “Also, I won’t have time to constantly come down to hospital. Having you back home would be best.”

Shawn absently nodded, and then his eyes drifted close, and Lassiter knew he was out for the count. He shook his head…and then gave his sleeping boyfriend a small, indulgent smile. Such a contradiction. Brilliant, genius, amazing…yet so childish and immature. But he loved him anyway.

He put the button out of reach, and smiled to himself as he walked out of the hospital room.

O’Hara was right outside, leaning against the wall.

“So…how’d it go?”

Carlton bit his lip while trying not to grin like an idiot, and simply said, “I made it right.”

She smiled.

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Carlton groaned as Shawn yelled, “Lassi! Can you flooff my pillows for me? They’ve gone all smooshy and I need them as round as white clouds!”

He was going to murder him. _After_ he fluffed his damn pillows.

Spencer, after spending two weeks in the hospital (they wouldn’t let him out any earlier), had come home and Lassiter was keeping a close eye on him. Vick was letting him take some time off, which he was silently agonizing over, as he _never_ took time off, just so he could be with Spencer. It was only the third day, and he was ready to murder him.

He stalked into the bedroom and helped Shawn lean forward, and then almost violently shook out the pillows, ignoring the frown his boyfriend sent in his direction. The detective then helped him lean back, and moved to stalk out of the room, but just as he hit the door, Shawn said, “Is something wrong?”

And he snapped.

“Why would there be something wrong when all you want is pineapple smoothies for every meal, and you need your pillows fluffed every ten minutes, and you need to have your pills every three hours, and you need to have a damn Kevin Bacon-movie-marathon in the _middle of the fucking night?”_

The fake psychic stared at him for a moment…and then said, “Oookay, I am sensing some _serious_ hostility, here. If you want to hire someone to keep an eye on me, you could have just said so.”

He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“No. No, it’s fine. I just…need some air.” He turned to leave, but Shawn stopped him, saying, “Look, Carlton, you and I both know that the whole mothering slash comforting thing isn’t exactly your tree fort--”

“It’s forte.”

“Heard it both ways, but not the point. The point is,” he added, putting his hands on the bed to scoot himself further up, wincing only a little at the action. “Taking care of me, as much as you feel the obligation to do so under statute nine, paragraph three of the gay boyfriend code, is not something that you can do for any reasonable length of time without wanting to put a bullet in my knee, so let’s just figure a few things out, shall we?”

Carlton wanted to argue, he wanted to say that that wasn’t the case, but he found no point in arguing. They both knew that he was at the end of his rope after just three days, and he was likely to have a mental breakdown if he had to give into one more of Spencer’s childish demands. Caving in, he moved back to the bed and sat on the edge of it…and then collapsed on his back and put his hands over his face and said, his voice muffled, “I love you, but so help me, I cannot do this for another day.”

Shawn grinned.

“I know that, Lassi, which is why I have someone else in mind. Guess who called me this morning?”

Carlton dropped his hands from his face and said, “You mean whoever called you at the unholy hour of two a.m.? That’s your back-up plan?”

The younger man dropped down his hand and deliberately messed up his boyfriend’s hair, who batted his hands away, and then said, “There was a time difference, Lassi-face. She’s probably already landed by now and on her way over, and she wants nothing more than to pamper me with love and affection, and is more than willing to cater to my every whim and desire while I am still out of commission. Of course,” he added, tilting his head and pursing his lips, “I _will_ miss you helping me with my showers.”

Lassiter sat back up and gave him a skeptical (and not at all jealous) look.

“She? Who is she?”

A knock sounded on their front door and Spencer gave him a toothy smile when he heard a familiar voice say through the door, “Shawn? I brought you soup!”

Carlton shot up to his feet.

“Your…is that your…”

Shawn nodded.

“Yep.”

Shit. It was Mrs. Spencer.

Panicking, he rushed to the front room, picking up an area that was usually ready for military inspection at any point, but, since Shawn’s arrival, had fallen decidedly below its’ usual standard. He picked up his jacket, a pair of inside out dress socks, and stuffed some paper into a still stained soup bowl that had two spoons and a wayward cup still jangling around inside of it. This wasn’t going to be the best first impression that he’d ever made. He ditched it all in the kitchen, except for the coat and socks, which he threw in the direction of the bedroom, which landed on the floor just inside the door. He fought against his better instincts to go pick up the jacket and hang it over the back of his chair and put his socks in the hamper, and instead settled for the fact that they were out of sight of the front door.

Still panicked, but feeling slightly more at ease at having cleaned up the worst of it in a matter of seconds, he smoothed a hand over his hair and then answered the door.

“Mrs. Spencer.”

The blonde-haired woman rolled her eyes and unexpectedly reached up and pulled him into a strong, one-armed hug, and said, “Please, you know I’m divorced, Carlton. Call me Madeleine.” She then handed him what was in her occupied hand: a large, brown paper bag with a familiar logo on the side. “I brought soup!”

“Come in,” he said, pulling out of the hug and taking the bag towards the kitchen. “I take it you were out of the country? London?”

She looked at him surprise, pausing in the middle of pulling off her coat, and said, “How’d you know?”

He smirked to himself and tried not to sound too proud as he said, “Shawn’s accident was a couple of weeks ago, and I know Henry would have called you immediately, but considering you didn’t show up until today, implies you were somewhere more unreachable than usual. You’re a profiler, and just two days ago, Interpol announced on the news they had caught their country-jumping serial killer.”

“How’d you know it was London?” she asked, as she put her coat on the back of the couch and faced him, crossing her arms over her chest.

Lassiter turned back in her direction and finished with, “Shawn got a phone call at two in the morning, which would have been ten in the morning in London, which is the time that their earliest, long distance, one way, non-stop flights leave. Also, I saw the residue of an old sticker that you tried to tear off your luggage. Saw an H and a W, and they were smeared with what was probably rain. Heathrow.”

Mrs. Spencer’s eyebrow arched.

“My son’s trained you well, Head Detective Lassiter.”

He smiled.

“Yes, he has.”

They shared a moment, and then it was broken with Spencer yelling from the bedroom, “I think it’s _swell_ that you two are getting along with _out_ me, but I would _like_ to see my _mother,_ now!”

Madeleine gave him a look, a very familiar wry smile on the corner of her mouth as she said, “Has he driven you up the wall, yet?”

“Yes,” he growled out, and she let out an amused laugh and walked past him to the bedroom, with Carlton following. At seeing his mom, Shawn lit up more than he’d expected him to and welcomed the way that she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead and said, “How are you doing, sweetie?”

He shrugged.

“Oh, pretty good. Being stuck in this bed is a living hell, but, besides that, just peachy.”

At hearing that, Carlton felt like an idiot. Of course, Shawn was as miserable as him. The reason why he’d been pestering him wasn’t just because he was being an immature brat (which he most undoubtedly was at times), but it was also because he was going stir crazy. He was used to moving around and being around people all day. Being cooped up in a bed was probably a nightmare for him.

However, just as he thought that, Shawn’s voice came into his head and said, _If you were in the bed with me, I wouldn’t mind_ , and he snorted. Yeah. The doctor had already told both of them, in a mortifyingly embarrassing moment, that they should wait to resume their, uh…“activities”… _after_ he’d completely healed. Shawn had proceeded to embarrass them both further by complaining that they’d never even gotten to their “activities” even when he’d been well.

Madeleine looked up at Lassiter and said, “Well, if you don’t mind, detective, I am going take over in the mothering of my son. Is that alright with you?”

He nodded.

“Go right ahead.”

At hearing his tone, Shawn glared at him.

“Hey! I’m not _that_ bad of a patient!”

“Yes, you are,” both Lassiter and Shawn’s mother said in unison. Spencer proceeded to act offended, crossing his arms over his chest, letting out a huff of air, and looking away from both of them. However, just as Carlton could see that he was about to say something flippant and more than likely sarcastic, Madeleine cut him off with, “I brought cookies! Your favorite kind, too.”

“Oooh, white chocolate pineapple-coconut chunk? From Sal’s Smoothies?”

She nodded.

“The very same.”

He grinned like an idiot.

“Thanks, mom.” She reached over and ruffled his hair affectionately. Oh. So _that’s_ where his habit of doing that to Carlton’s hair came from. “Now, you said something about soup?”

She nodded a second time and said, “It’s sitting in the kitchen,” and her hand moved to his shoulder, her eyes focusing on the bandage that was still wrapped around it. Carlton saw her eyes dim as her thumb grazed the edge of the bandage, and he knew what she was thinking. Why had it happened to _her_ son? Why Shawn?

Brushing it off, he said, “I’ll get the soup,” and turned and left the room, leaving Shawn alone with his mom. They were so much alike in so many ways. He would let him have some time with her, time that Lassiter knew he wanted, even when he said that he was angry at her for leaving him and Henry. As much as his boyfriend complained, Lassiter knew that he never really meant it. As he opened the bag and pulled out the soup, he wondered how comfortable Madeleine really was with him dating her son.

He put the soup into a bowl and onto the tray he’d been using for the past two days, and then just as he turned to leave the kitchen, Madeleine appeared in the doorway and took the tray from him, throwing over her shoulder as she went, “Stay there, Carlton. You and I need to have a talk.”

Shit.

He waited, agitated, and wished he’d at least left his holster on. It would have given him something to ground himself with, but because he’d taken it off earlier, he felt naked. He anxiously waited, and when she walked back into the room, he opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand, cutting him off.

“I have three questions,” she said, leveling her eyes on his. He gulped and then nodded. “Alright. First question: do you love him?”

Carlton nodded.

“Yes. Despite myself, I do.”

She smirked and replied, “Oh, I remember _your_ psych evaluation. I am not in the least bit surprised that you fell for my son. He’s so similar to you in so many ways…he just doesn’t take himself as seriously,” she added, tossing him a reassuring grin. “And I’m pretty damn sure I’ve never seen him as happy with anyone else before in his life.”

He avoided her eyes, feeling his face go warm at her words, and then swallowed, waiting for her second question.

She glanced towards the bedroom door, as if making sure it was closed, and then asked, “My second question…do you plan on selling him out at any point?” He gave her a blank look, and Madeleine’s gaze hardened. “Carlton, on all things that I need a straight answer for, this is one of them. I will not see my son harmed in _any_ way. I can make your life difficult, and I won’t feel the least bit guilty about it, so tell me now if we’re going to have a problem with this.”

Lassiter shoved his hands into his pockets and shook his head.

“No. I won’t sell him out. As much as I believe in upholding the law…sometimes the only way to do it any justice, is by going outside of it.” He looked towards the door as well. “I may not like his methods, but he’s the best damn detective that I’ve ever come across. And I will always support him in that.”

Her eyes softened and her posture, which had been rigid, relaxed. She gave him a quick once-over with her eyes, and then said softly, “You’re a good man, Detective Lassiter.”

Again, he felt his face flush red, and he looked down at the floor, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets, becoming uncomfortable under her gentle scrutiny.

Finally, after a long moment of silence, she asked, “My last question is fairly simple: When do you plan on making an honest man out of my son?”

At that, Lassiter’s eyes shot back up, wide and in shock at what he was hearing. _What_ had she just asked him? Had she just asked him if he…and Shawn…were… He looked her in the eye. Dear god, she was. He sputtered, unsure of how to respond, as the thought had never even crossed his mind…well, that wasn’t _entirely_ true. It might have crossed it once or twice, usually in the mornings when one of them was cooking breakfast for the other, and Carlton would briefly wish that he could see them wearing matching gold bands, but he’d never _seriously_ considered…

He saw her look and he took a step back and tightened his jaw and said, “I’m sorry, Madeleine, but I don’t think that’s your place to ask.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and stared back at him. The silence was terse, until she said, “You’re right. It’s not.”

Lassiter was confused…and then he suddenly realized what her last question was. A test. Like mother, like son. She was testing him to see if was going to be easily intimidated, and, luckily, he’d passed the test. However, that didn’t mean that he approved of her methods.

“Madeleine,” he spit out. “I get that you worry about him, especially after what’s just happened, but I won’t be manipulated. I don’t like it when he does it to me, and I don’t appreciate being treated like one of your suspects. Spencer and I have a relationship. It is ours and no one else’s. Now, do you have any other questions?”

She let out a sigh and dropped her hands to her hips and asked, “How the hell do you _live_ with him? He’s just so…” She made a vague motion with her hands and he snorted.

“Yes, I know what you mean. He is. But, it’s one of the reasons why I…well…you know.”

“Love him?” she supplied, and he nodded.

She gave him a fond smile and then unexpectedly surged forward and wrapped him into a proper hug, holding onto him tightly, and he reluctantly returned it, awkwardly patting her back, unsure of why she was being so physically demonstrative with him.

“You be good to him, Carlton,” she whispered. She then pulled back, looked him in the eye and added, “If you break his heart, you’ll have to deal with more than just my mind games. Understood?”

He nodded.

“Understood.”

She looked back at the bedroom, and then at him and said, “I slipped part of a sedative into his soup. He’ll be out for the next few hours. Care to take advantage of the time? Perhaps...” She reached down and tugged something from beneath the couch. A pair of Shawn’s boxers. “Clean?”

Carlton let out a frustrated sigh and reached out and grabbed them from her hand, blushing furiously as he stuttered out, “It…It’s not what you think, it, it’s from…”

“My son being a general slob? Yes, Carlton, I am familiar with his habits.”

She let out a small laugh, and then proceeded to help him over the next two hours, cleaning the living room, bathroom, and kitchen, all up to his usual militaristic standards. They talked as they worked, but she didn’t pry any further into their personal lives, and for that, the detective was immensely thankful. Instead, they talked about her work with Interpol and his and Spencer’s work with their most recent SBPD cases, as well as just how amazing Shawn really was with his deductive reasoning.

Just as they finished up in the kitchen, Madeleine turned to him and asked, “Does it ever bother you how good he is?”

Lassiter hesitated, unsure of how to respond, but then finally replied honestly with, “Sometimes. I get mad when he puts things together so easily, without even having to think about it. But then I see why he’s doing it and who he’s doing it _for_ …and I can’t help but be grateful that he is. He saves people that we might not have been able to save. All because he sees so much.”

He paused and wrung a dishcloth between his hands. Madeleine looked at him for a moment…and then nodded.

“He’s good, Carlton. He’s damn good. But that doesn’t mean he’s always right.” She gave him a stern look and then added, “I hope you’ll keep him in line. I don’t want him thinking that just because you two are together, now, that he can walk all over you. He does it to Gus more often than he’d like to admit.”

Carlton smirked, and his blue eyes lit up.

“Oh, I don’t let him.”

She smiled.

“Good. Then I think you and him will do just fine.”

She turned back to the sink, and as he finished up the counter, he thought to himself, _I am one lucky son of a bitch._ He wiped down the counter one last time, and then pulled out his phone and called the Chief, telling her that he’d be in the next morning. As soon as he’d hung up, Madeleine said, “What do you say if I go pick us up some Chinese for dinner? Don’t want to ruin the kitchen, and, knowing my son, he’s going to be complaining as soon as he wakes up, so let’s not give him anything to complain about.”

Carlton nodded.

“Sounds good to me. But I use forks, not chopsticks.”

She smiled.

“So do I.”

They were going to get along just fine.

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. -- This chapter kicked. My. ASS. I seriously struggled, so sorry it took it so long!! But I hope you enjoy it! Leave a comment, and let me know what you think!

**Chapter 24**

He woke up with a full bladder. Even though he was under doctor’s orders to not leave the bed unless he had his boyfriend (or someone else) helping him, he couldn’t find it in him to wake the man up. He’d been working a drug running case for the past week, and he’d barely slept at all over the past four days. This was the first time Shawn had seen him sleep for any longer than three hours.

Gus had stopped by earlier, but Shawn had practically chased him off, apologizing profusely and promising more smoothies while trying to get him out of the apartment, despite the fact that he’d not been spending as much time with him as he’d hoped. He knew that Lassi was coming home and that he would most likely sleep if he knew that no one else was there and that there were no plans for anyone coming over for the rest of the evening. He’d even called his mom and told her not to come, leaving him eating the rest of the bag of saltines that she’d left next to the bed as his dinner, as he couldn’t get up to grab one of the meals from the fridge.

His mom had been helping out around the apartment, picking up after him and making pre-made meals for both him _and_ the detective, not just Shawn, and he knew that she would disapprove of him doing anything that might make his bed-ridden status last any longer…

…but he _had_ to pee.

He glanced at the bathroom door. He looked down at his boyfriend. Back at the door. Back at his boyfriend.

Screw it.

Shawn was agitated as he moved his legs over the side of the bed. Carlton shifted next to him, but didn’t wake up. He was _not_ going to bother him just to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Trying not make any sound, he winced as he used his arms to leverage himself to his feet, putting as little pressure on his chest as was possible, and then slowly inched his way to the bathroom. As he did, he thought back to the last couple of days. His mother had been there, helping out, and running interference to keep Carlton from shooting him, and for that he was grateful, but…

He saw the looks that she kept on throwing in his direction, and Shawn was silently getting tired of it. He knew what they meant. She was worried about him. And she also suspected that he was hiding something else from her. Curse her and her psychological profiling. Of course, he couldn’t really blame her for it. It was in her nature. It was what she had passed down to him, after all. An insatiable curiosity for anything that involved any kind of subterfuge that could possibly cause him more trouble than it was worth. That was why he’d insisted to be put onto the case that had nearly gotten him killed, after all. That was why he’d investigated a place that he knew was most likely dangerous. Therefore, it was all her fault that he’d...no, he wouldn’t blame her. It was on him. It was _all_ on him.

Shawn brushed the thought to the side and vainly tried to ignore every stabbing pain that shot through his side as he tried to make the last foot to the door, his whole body shaking with the effort to stay upright and not simply collapse into a fetal position on the floor. God. Having broken ribs _sucked._

He let out a sigh of relief as he finally made it to the bathroom, and then let out a soft groan as he put one hand on the toilet tank and then relieved himself, ignoring the low throb of his shoulder as he put pressure on the one that was shot. Probably not the best idea, but oh well. As soon as he was done, he moved back towards the bedroom…and then cursed when his foot slipped on the tile.

Shit.

He vainly struggled for balance, but found none and looked at the floor imploringly, hoping that it would turn into pillows as he hit it. No such luck.

As he fell, he managed to knock down the one thing guaranteed to make the loudest noise possible. The water glass. It hit the floor and shattered, and from where Shawn was lying prone on his back and in pain, he saw Lassiter shoot straight up in bed, his gun already in his hand. In seconds, he had it pointed straight at him; combined with the sight of his white t-shirt clinging to his firm biceps, his sleep pants hanging _dangerously_ low on his hips, and his mussed hair, if Shawn hadn’t been in so much pain, he would have been incredibly turned on at the sight.

It took a moment, but then Lassiter’s hand slowly lowered, he squinted, and then, in an almost comical fashion, he shoved the gun back into the drawer and nearly tripped over the covers as he scrambled over the bed towards the bathroom, his eyes now wide with fear.

“Spencer? What the hell happened?!”

He leaned down to help him off the floor, while Shawn tried to wave him off.

“I’m fine, Carly, I’m fine,” he insisted, squirreling out of the older man’s hands and struggling to his feet. “I just managed to make going to the bathroom an Olympic sport, is all. Ten points for aim, but they docked me a few for the glass,” he added, chuckling under his breath.

Carlton glared at him and then moved around him to the glass and said, in a terse tone, “Don’t move, Shawn. I don’t want to risk you getting any glass in your feet. I’ll clean it up.”

And with that, he quickly left the bathroom and came back moments later with a dustpan and a small broom. That was Carlton: prepared for anything. Be it a gun next to his bed, or a dust pan and broom in the closet. Spencer stood there for a few moments, awkwardly waiting for him to finish cleaning up.

“I love it when you go all domestic on me, Lassi,” he quipped, trying to lighten the mood, but the older man didn’t respond and continued to clean up the shattered mess on the floor. Luckily, there hadn’t been any water in the glass. If there had, Shawn was certain that he would have had a mop in there as well.

Once he was done and had disposed of everything, he moved to Shawn’s side and helped him back to bed, the younger man trying not to let on as to just how much pain he was really in.

However, the point became moot when he laid down and then hissed as he felt part of his stitches pull too tightly across his chest.

“Spencer? Are you alright?”

He tried to brush him off, waving a hand in his direction, but the movement of his arm aggravated it even more and he put it back down on the bed just in time to see red bleeding through his gray t-shirt. Shit. He’d blown a stitch. Lassi was going to kill him.

As soon as Lassiter saw the red on Shawn’s shirt, he blew up in a spectacular fashion, and Shawn would have been impressed if he hadn’t been in so much agony as Lassiter practically ripped his shirt off him and then went and grabbed his emergency medical kit from the bathroom, which was (of course) fully stocked. And it included emergency medical sutures. As he stitched him up, he growled under his breath and muttered more than a few not-so-nice expletives.

Shawn moved his hand to touch his face, but Lassiter pulled back and glared at him.

“Don’t,” he said firmly, snapping shut the medicine kit. Shawn tried not to show just how hurt he was, but from the way Carlton rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t look at me like that, Shawn,” he knew he’d failed.

He couldn’t help it. He _hated_ being an invalid. His condition before had ended up not being real, and now he was immobilized for the time being because of the man who’d been poisoning him, and he wanted nothing more than to hold his boyfriend in his arms, but he was _stuck_ in that stupid bed. He silently cursed and wondered why fate was being so harsh with him. Maybe he deserved it. Maybe it was the cosmos’ way of telling him that he wasn’t allowed to be happy.

Just as he felt himself spiraling down into an even deeper depression, Carlton slipped back into bed, turning the lights off as he did, and then reached across and touched Shawn’s shoulder and said, “Wake me up if you have to get up, alright?”

Shawn simply nodded.

Lassiter was pissed that he’d tried to do something on his own, but he was still worried. That’s what the shoulder touch had meant. What the hell had he done to get a man as good as him? He sure as hell didn’t deserve it. If anything, considering all the things he’d done in his life, he deserved to spend the rest of his life miserable and alone…but he had Carlton.

He lay awake for a long time, wondering just where his relationship with the man was going.

They had started dating under pretty honest terms, surprisingly enough, but Shawn realized that that was probably why Lassiter had even bothered to think about dating him. Shawn had been honest with him: about his abilities and about every other aspect of his life. A thought suddenly hit him with violent impact: Carlton was the only one that knew everything about him. Everything that was important, anyway. He knew about his abilities, he knew about Shawn thinking he was sick, he knew about just how vulnerable he really was…

Goddamn.

He knew it all. He knew the side of him that was ridiculous and loved to push all of his buttons in all the wrong ways just to see him react. He knew about how Henry had raised him, and was actually _on his side_ , and agreed that no kid should be raised that way. Lassiter knew how bitingly sarcastic and mean Shawn really was when he was truly pissed off and angry.

…but he also knew that he hated peppermint toothpaste, and would only use spearmint. He knew that he preferred pancakes to waffles, and that pineapple was only _one_ of his favorite flavors, and that some nights he preferred strawberry ice-cream. He knew that he loved to wear Lassiter’s shirts after he’d worn them, so he would purposely leave them on the bed for him to wear the next day. Lassiter knew that as much as Shawn claimed to love eighties rock, that he was actually a sucker for nineties alternative, and that he’d take a bullet for his dad, despite how much he said he couldn’t stand him. He knew that even though he showed the world an extroverted face and seemed to thrive on being the life of the party, that it actually drained him, which is why he would disappear into his head for days on end.

Shawn turned his head and stared at his boyfriend asleep next him in the bed and marveled for a long moment. Lassiter snorted in his sleep and pushed his face further into the pillow.

The fake psychic smiled and gently traced his fingers over his shoulder, and watched him unconsciously press into his touch, settling deeper into the mattress. He stared at him. He was a handsome man when he wasn’t yelling or scowling at him. He moved his fingers to his hair and was slightly surprised at just how soft it was.

Shawn pulled his hand back and felt his realization hit him head on.

He couldn’t imagine his life without him. He honestly tried to look at his future in a way that didn’t include the taciturn, historical-nerd detective, but he couldn’t see it. All he could see as he looked into his future was mornings of coffee and pancakes, and evenings with bickering over whose turn it was to cook dinner, along with a dog. Or maybe two or three, along with an ornery cat or two, but who cared?

All that mattered was that Carlton was a part of it.

Yeah.

As he thought about it, he wondered how long he would have to keep on lying about being psychic, or if Lassi would help him get out of it entirely. Because, as much as he loved it, he loved Carlton more and he had no illusions about his future as a “psychic”…it wasn’t permanent. Maybe they’d fake a head injury. Maybe they’d come up with a way for him to eventually use his skill set to find another job, one that didn’t involve him risking life and limb without a badge.

As strange as it was, he was fine with it. He was fine with not being the guy with a different girl or guy every two weeks. He wanted to be with Carlton. The man challenged him in all of the _best_ ways, as well as made one of the best damn pineapple smoothies he’d ever tasted. That, alone, qualified him as a lifetime partner. He wasn’t gonna give that up any time soon.

Shawn smirked as he thought of ways to show the detective just how much he appreciated him once he got better. Oh, yeah.

He knew.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

He was home.

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

Shawn wheeled into the station, thrilled that Lassi had finally pried open his wallet and sprung for a wheelchair. Temporarily, of course, but Shawn didn’t care because it meant he could go back and see everyone at the SBPD. He popped a wheelie as he went past McNabb, who grinned, and then slid to a squeaking stop next to Jules’ desk.

“Jules!” he yelled, too happy to keep quiet. “I have missed you with the force of a thousand suns! Where have you been this last week? I was ready with jello shooters, 27 Dresses, and A Walk to Remember, but you bailed on our best of the worst rom-com night!”

She rolled her eyes and tried to ignore him as he kept on trying to do stunts in his wheelchair, failing spectacularly at nearly every single one.

“It’s called working, Shawn. Some of us still have to do it,” she added dryly as she reached for a file, but before she could get to it, Spencer reached over and snatched it off her desk, wheeling away from her, his eyes flashing over the page for only a few seconds before she had jumped up, caught up with him, and pulled it out of his hands.

“That’s not your case. In fact, you shouldn’t even be looking at it. The chief specifically told me to keep you off of it.”

Shawn’s eyebrow shot up.

“Ooh, really? Than that means that she needs me on it more than ever. If I could just--”

“Shawn!” Gus stormed into the room, two smoothies in his hands, looking absolutely furious. “Just because you have a wheelchair, that does not give you the right to take off whenever you goddamn feel like it!”

“Aw, don’t be a cricket with a broken leg, Gus! I was just convincing Jules here to put us on the most recent case!” He raised a hand to his head, doing his usual psychic routine and ignored Gus as he rolled his eyes, and said, “I believe it has something to do with…Irish mobs and drug running.” He stopped and then said, “Hold up. That name. I remember the name.”

He wheeled around and stared at Juliet accusingly, and snapped out in an uncharacteristically brusque manner, “Evan O’Daly. Lassiter told me that case was closed over a week ago, but if it isn’t, than that means that it’s still open, and since I don’t see my boyfriend around here anywhere and the coat that he wore when he left this morning is over on the coat rack, then that means he isn’t at lunch, and that _also_ means, since his desk is clear, that he’s using a different wallet, because he left his in his jacket, which means a fake I.D., which translates to doing undercover work…and he didn’t fucking _tell_ me! He’s the one who wanted me off of it, wasn’t he?” he hissed out, throwing his hands up in the air, obviously more than pissed.

Juliet gave him a commiserating look, but was also quietly impressed at how much he’d picked up on from just seeing a single name. How the hell had he figured that out so quickly? She brushed it to the side, however, when Gus said, “C’mon, Shawn. That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”

“Actually…”

Guster looked at her in surprise.

“Wait a second, are you telling me that he guessed right?”

She nodded, biting her lip, and carefully said, “Look, he promised me not to tell you anything, Shawn! He said it would only make you upset and that you might do something, oh, I don’t know…reckless? And, well, I kinda agree with him. You’re not exactly known for taking people lying to you very well.”

He said nothing, his arms crossed over his chest, but then he gave her a hard stare and said, “Hold up…is this why you cancelled lunch on me? Twice?”

“Uh, I…”

He threw his hands down to the wheels of his wheelchair and moved himself away from her desk.

“Great, just great,” Shawn muttered, ignoring Gus as he tried to hand him his smoothie. “No wonder he didn’t want to let me out of the apartment. He was afraid I was going to find out the case wasn’t closed, and that I would mess up his little undercover operation.”

She tried to protest, but he cut her off with, “Why him? He’s lousy at lying! Why would the chief ever even _consider_ him for undercover work? And with the Irish _mob?_ ”

“Actually,” Juliet corrected him, “Lassiter’s one of the best I’ve ever _seen_. I mean, yeah, he’s not all that great at lying in a normal social situation, granted, I’ll give you that, but he’s pretty damn amazing at undercover work, Shawn. I’ve never seen anyone slip so easily into his personas the way that he does. The FBI saw his background and skill set and they immediately--”

“FBI?” Gus said, incredulous. “Uh, I thought Lassiter couldn’t stand them, let alone want to work with them!”

“C’mon, Gus, what’re you talking about?” Shawn drawled out. “If it means impressing them with his skills, Lassi’s the perfect candidate for playing show-off Head Detective.” He paused for a moment and then exploded. “It’s not like I can _do_ anything!” he yelled, hitting his hands against the armrests. “I’m stuck in a freakin’ chair until I heal up, and he’s gone off to who knows where to be all Steve Burns in some shady, unnamed rainbow club in a bad part of Santa Barbara…!”

Juliet and Gus were both quiet, until she registered just what the psychic had said and took note of the movie reference and what it meant. How had he…?

“Shawn, how did you know?”

He looked up at her, his green eyes flashing, still angry.

“Know what?”

Her voice went tight and her tone suddenly shifted into interrogation mode as she said quietly, but sternly, “Cut the crap, Shawn. How did you know that he’s investigating the gay club scene? That’s not in the report, and no one knows about it except for me and the chief, we haven’t even shared that bit with the FBI. Now, answer the question: how’d you know?”

He wasn’t about to tell her that he knew because he had only just realized why Carlton had bought new jeans, shoes, and a couple of slightly too-tight black t-shirts. He felt like an idiot for not putting it together until that moment. He blamed it on the fact that he was physically incapacitated, so it was keeping him from being on top of his game. Shit. How had he not figured it out until now? Carlton had told him he’d bought the jeans because his old ones had torn at the zipper, and that the shirts were for outside work. And the hair gel. Dammit. Dead giveaway. How had he _missed_ it?

Quickly, he shot out, “The energy here at the station is much more concentrated than at home. Deception, when in high concentrations,” he said, pleased with how easy he was faking it, “Causes massive disruption in ley lines which builds up an amplification of spiritual energy at the point of disruption. To put it in layman’s terms,” he added, arching an almost condescending eyebrow and putting a finger up to his temple, “Too many lies in one place attracts spirits of truth. They _wanted_ me to know, Jules.”

She stared at him.

“That…actually makes some sort of sense. Uh, wow, Shawn. I guess lying to you wasn’t exactly the best idea, huh?”

He nodded, his lips tight, but he turned it into a jaunty smile and brushed everything off as if it wasn’t a big deal, even though he was cursing Carlton out violently inside his mind.

“No big deal, Jules. He wanted to protect me, like the big mama bear that he is. It’s okay. Just tell him I stopped by and said that I’ll see him at home, alright?”

She nodded, and then stared after him as he rolled out of the station, Gus finally catching up with him, successfully handing him his smoothie. She thought back to his remarkably scarily accurate deductions that he’d done as soon he’d wheeled into the bullpen, and she wondered about it. She’d only seen glimpses of that kind of thing a few times before. She had seen it in brief flashes, but they’d been covered up by his characteristic wild gesturing, along with some sort of psychic revelation.

Shawn consistently made her think of an incredibly over exuberant puppy that always ran from place to place, never walking, doing every trick asked of him with ease and with boundless energy and wild abandon, seemingly unaware of the screeching tires of a car coming just a hair too close to hitting him, but would occasionally slow down and raise his hackles the instant he sensed any real danger.

Juliet laughed for a moment at the metaphor, and sat back down at her desk.

The junior detective looked over at her partner’s desk, and she bit her lip.

Lassiter was going to be pissed when he found out that Shawn knew.

* * *

“You told him?” Lassiter said coldly, tightly, making Juliet squirm uncomfortably under his scrutiny.

“I didn’t tell him _any_ thing, Lassiter, I swear! He came in and just from looking at your coat and your desk, he knew! I mean, he did this whole weird thing where he managed to figure out that the mob case wasn’t closed, and that you were working undercover…it was weird,” she said a second time, but then added, “But I didn’t _tell_ him!”

He nodded, and said carefully, “Uh huh. You didn’t tell him. Sure.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Then how did he know about the nightclubs? How, O’Hara?! Care to explain that?”

She stared back at him, raising an eyebrow in defiance.

“Don’t take your anger out on _me_ , Carlton. He’s _psychic_ , remember? He knew without me having to say a word!”

Lassiter glared at her as he shucked off the leather coat that he was still wearing, the heat of it oppressive in the warmth of the bullpen. Psychic, his ass. He ran an agitated hand through his hair and tried not to be squeamish as his fingers almost got stuck in the gel. Removing his hand, he wiped his fingers absently on the black jeans that fit him just a bit too tightly for comfort, and then turned back on his partner, hissing out, “O’Hara, the only reason why the FBI are working with us is because of the drugs. If they knew about the fact that the drug runners aren’t our main goal, that we’re trying to find a serial killer in the gay community, we’re screwed. You know that, right?”

She nodded.

“Yes, I know. That’s why I told Shawn not to breathe a word of this to anyone.”

He rolled his eyes and reached for his sport coat…and then dropped his hand, hesitating. He would look stupid wearing it over a black t-shirt. And, since Shawn already knew, he might as well wear the leather back to the apartment. He picked up the motorcycle jacket and looked back at his partner and said, “I’ll talk to him at home, see if I can’t convince him to stay away from the case.”

Juliet gave him a quick once over and said, “If you’re wearing _that,_ I think he’ll just about agree to anything, partner.”

Confused at what she meant, he just turned and grabbed his keys, heading home.

The instant he walked through the door, he knew something was up. He heard sounds coming from the kitchen. Not good. Quickly, he stormed into the kitchen…where he found Shawn trying to reach something on a shelf in the refrigerator, straining on the edge of his seat…

“Spencer!”

He didn’t even flinch.

“Lassi-lips! Could you be a doll and hand me the white broccoli on the shelf that I can’t reach?”

“It’s called cauliflower, Shawn.”

“I’ve heard it both ways, babe. Just hand it over, please. I’m cooking.”

Amused, and wanting to see what he was attempting to make, he handed it to him and decided to watch the event unfold. As Shawn rolled over to the counter, Lassiter was surprised to see actual food items on top of a cutting board, and not just random junk. There were carrots, onions, slices of swiss cheese, and a partially opened can of cream of mushroom soup

“What are you making?”

“Dunno, but it should taste good,” Shawn said as he pulled open a drawer and pulled out a knife. He brought the cutting board down to his lap and diced up the vegetables with practiced ease, while Carlton started to lecture him.

“O’Hara told me you dropped by today.”

“Uh huh.”

He wasn’t paying attention. Frustrated, Carlton reached down and pulled the knife from his hands and put it out of his reach and said, “She was impressed with your deductive reasoning this morning, Shawn.” He turned his glare on him. “She called it your ‘weird thing’. Care to explain yourself?”

The fake psychic rolled his eyes, looked up at the ceiling and then said, “Okay, _maybe_ I kinda-sorta went all Sherlock Holmes in front of her, but it was only for a second and Gus was there to cover for me!”

“Oh, he covered for you? Really?”

“Technically, _yes_ ,” he said hesitantly, but his boyfriend glared and he relented. “Okay, so he didn’t really cover, more did a misdirect, but hey, it all worked out in the end! By the way,” he added, turning away from him, pulling open another drawer and pulling out a baster, “I’m still pissed that you didn’t tell me about the undercover thing, so don’t expect to get any of this chicken, tonight.”

“Chicken?”

Right on cue, the oven dinged.

“Yes, chicken, Lassi. My chicken.” He grabbed the board back and rolled into his shins, moving him out of the way. “Now, move.” He did, and tried not show his annoyance when Shawn opened the oven to reveal a perfectly sliced and cooked chicken, sitting in a roasting pan filled with some sort of sauce that smelled divine. Of course, Shawn could cook like a professional chef. Why was he even surprised? Shawn dropped the vegetables into the pan and then grabbed some oven mitts off the counter and pulled it out, putting it on the cutting board on his lap.

Lassiter watched as Shawn then rolled away over to the table, serving himself up several slices.

“By the way, Lassi,” he added casually as he stabbed a piece of his chicken, almost conversationally. “If I weren’t still injured right now, I would totally let you fuck me in that outfit.”

Nearly choking on his tongue, but also filing away the sordid piece of information, the detective turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen, heading towards the shower.

He still had gel in his hair.

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

** **

 

**Chapter 26**

Carlton shifted on the stool in the dark bar, slightly uneasy at being so obviously out in the open. Even with the reassuring weight of his backup weapon in his ankle holster, he missed the more comforting and familiar weight of his shoulder holster, but he couldn’t wear it with his clothes. He tugged at the bottom edge of his shirt, which was a size too small on purpose, and tried not to look too obvious as he scanned the crowd for his contact.

Just as he was about ready to run from the bar after being hit on one time too many, a man with black hair in nothing but ripped jeans and a dog collar approached him, leaning in uncomfortably close, and whispered in his ear as he grabbed his thigh, “Name’s Mark. I’ve got the merchandise. Three for an even Benjamin.” The man pressed his body into Carlton’s side, his hand moving further up his thigh, making him want to throw up, while his other hand slipped the drugs into his back pocket along with a quick grope, and then added, in a lecherous tone as he squeezed his ass, “And I’ll give you something a little extra for free, gorgeous.”

He then ran his tongue over his ear and Carlton jabbed him in the ribs.

“Just the three, thanks. No’ interested,” he drawled out in his flawless fake Irish accent as he slipped him the hundred-dollar bill in the way that involved the least amount of touching.

The man pouted.

“You sure? All the boys I’ve met say my mouth is my best asset,” he leered, looking pointedly between Carlton’s legs and licking his lips.

The detective glared at him and snapped back with, “My boyfrien’ wouldn’t appreciate it. He don’ like it when people touch things that aren’t theirs…get me meaning?” He stared him down and the meth-head pulled back, his mouth going into a tight line the instant he heard the word ‘boyfriend’.

“Fine, then.”

As he walked away, Carlton flinched when he heard FBI investigator Agent Travis Kessler’s voice in his earpiece saying, _“Aw, detective. I think you hurt his feelings. Now, how about that merchandise?”_

Inwardly seething, but trying to keep calm, he simply muttered, “You’ll get it when I’ve gotten all the information. Mark is just a pawn, but if you’ve done your surveillance correctly,” he snipped, “Then you should have no problem seeing where he’s headed. I’m rather pinned down and it would look strange to go after him after I’ve already turned him down.”

Feeling slightly smug when Kessler replied, _“Just…give us a moment,”_ he turned back to the bartender and motioned for another tonic water. He wasn’t drinking, of course. Even if he was there for something other than work, he wouldn’t be drinking. This wasn’t exactly his sort of scene…though it might have been Shawn’s at one point. He winced as he thought of it, and tried not to imagine Shawn in an open button-down and tight pants out on the dance floor grinding away against other men’s bodies.

But it was hard not to. The man was attractive, after all, and he would have been catnip in a place like this. Someone would have caught his eye. Someone like Mark, perhaps. A young, firm body; eager, ready to please.

Lassiter’s jaw tightened as he thought of how Shawn had taken it when he’d found out about him being undercover. Denying him dinner had been the least of his problems. He wouldn’t even talk to him directly, and had pouted like a twelve-year-old girl in a fight with her best friend, ferrying notes and messages to him through everyone else, even when they were in the same room together.

He had thought about saying no to Kessler, but he knew that he couldn’t. The FBI had their own investigation, and it was helping him run his.

The Irish mob had just happened to be running their drugs and laundering their money through one of the local gay bars, D’Oro, and it just so happened that there had been two murders in the past four months near or around the bar. Both of the victims had been frequent customers, and had been killed the same way: their throats were slit.

He and the Chief had decided to keep that bit of information under their hats when Kessler had come knocking at their precinct door, looking for a local cop who could help them infiltrate the Irish mob without tipping anyone off. The bit that Lassiter had left out of telling Shawn was that he’d volunteered for the job. Vick had even warned him not to, knowing that Shawn wouldn’t take it well. Carlton had brushed it off, thinking that she was overreacting. Apparently, however, she was right. Shawn _hadn’t_ taken it well.

He threw back the rest of his tonic water, the carbonation fizzing uncomfortably in the back of his throat, and he moved towards the front door to leave when he heard Kessler say, _“Carlton, on your nine o’ clock. Man in the gray suit. He’s the one your boy Mark talked to. Ran facial recognition, and it’s him. O’Daly. Go and introduce yourself, use your alias. Make it clean.”_

Slightly annoyed that he was going to have to do it on the fly, Carlton adjusted his shirt one more time and wandered over in O’Daly’s direction.

He managed to make it look like an accident when he brushed up against him, nearly knocking his drink from his hand.

“Oh, ‘scuse me, sir. Don’ mean to give you an upset.” He patted the man on the shoulder, and was met with a piercing look. O’Daly was the same height as him with a lean build, and was surprisingly tan for an Irishman. Brown eyes caught Lassiter’s blue, and the man gave him a small smile.

“No problem here,” he drawled, looking Lassiter up and down. “Now, who might you be? I know e’eryone who comes in here, an’ you’re a fresh new face. Not that I’m complainin’, mind you,” he added, leering slightly, and then said, “Bu’ I keep a close eye on anyone new.”

 _Don’t give more information than they’ve asked for,_ he reminded himself.

“David Lassiter,” he answered, extending his hand, which was received well with a firm handshake.

“Lassiter! Well, another one with green blood in ‘is veins. Good to see a friendly face,” he said, smiling, still holding his hand. “An’ where d’you hail from, Lassiter?”

“Bere Island.”

He smiled again and slowly dropped his hand, bringing it back to his drink, and said, “Ah, Bere Island. Ne’er been there, meself, bu’ I hear good things ‘bout it. My name’s Evan O’Daly, of Dublin. Now, enough small talk. How ‘bout I buy you a drink, boyo? Will that do?”

The detective nodded.

“That’ll do fine.”

Evan gave him a broad smile and escorted him back towards the bar, a hand resting comfortably on his shoulder, guiding him. As much as he wanted to break the fingers on his hand and then throw a mean left hook at the guy’s disgustingly perfect face, instead he simply smiled and let himself be manhandled up to a stool.

“What’ll you have?” he asked, and Lassiter quickly replied, “Whatever your havin’,” and knew it was the right answer when the man grinned and then ordered them both an Irish whiskey on the rocks. He wasn’t a fan of the drink, but he shot it back anyway, much to the amusement of O’Daly, who looked at him over the edge of his glass with a sly smile as he took a quick sip of his own drink. He waited for the Irishman to speak first, and wasn’t disappointed when he put his drink down on the black glass and leaned in closer and whispered, “I noticed you’re a new customer. Mark didn’a seem to catch your eye, which tells me you’re a man o’ discernin’ taste.”

The detective said nothing, merely taking another sip of his drink, not quite meeting his eye.

After a moment, Evan leaned back and said, “You ‘ave a boyfrien’, don’ you?” He glanced at him, but said nothing. The older man continued. “I can tell. There’s a certain way ‘bout you, and how you’re lookin’ at people. You’re not lookin’ at ‘em like possibilities…you’re lookin’ at ‘em like none of them measure up.”

Carlton remained silent and shot back the rest of his drink, wincing as it burned down his throat.

“I respect that.”

Finally, Carlton said, “Di’ you actually want somethin’ from me, or are you just gonna bore me by talkin’?”

The drug runner smiled and leaned forward, pressing almost uncomfortably close to him, and then whispered in his ear, “I’m lookin’ for a new client to…move a few things for me. Someone new that won’t draw any attention. The pay is more than generous, I assure you. D’you think you’re up for it?”

He finished off his drink and looked O’Daly in the eye.

“Count me in.”

O’Daly smirked.

“I think this’ll be a good friendship, David.” He offered his hand and Carlton shook it. “Here, tomorrow night. Ten o’clock. Don’t be late.”

Lassiter nodded.

He left him at the bar, and after a decent amount of time had passed, Lassiter stepped out and walked over to his car and said into his earpiece, “I’m in.”

Kessler replied, _“Good. Now the real fun begins.”_

He pulled out his earpiece and put it on the passenger’s seat, and sat for a moment, staring at his steering wheel for a few seconds before putting his key into the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot. As he drove home, he thought about what he was doing and if it was worth it. He _hated_ the fact that he’d had to lie to Shawn, but he hadn’t had much of a choice. If Spencer got involved, it would _definitely_ put him at risk, and that wasn’t a risk he was willing to take again; not when there was someone out there targeting gay men.

Carlton gritted his teeth and silently reminded himself why he was doing it: O’Daly was incredibly well connected, and he would most likely know who was targeting men at the club. Catching him for drugs was just a bonus. In the end, it was about catching a murderer.

He pulled up to the apartment and cringed when he saw the light on. Shawn had waited up for him. It was one in the morning.

He dragged himself up the stairs and the instant he walked in the door, the younger man yelled out to him, “Leftovers are in the fridge if you want them, Lassi.” He was back in the bedroom. He didn’t have to see him to hear the agitation in his voice. Lassiter bypassed the kitchen and walked to the bedroom door, his hand going for the handle…and then stopped. No. Not tonight. He’d talk to him in the morning, when they were both better rested and less likely to say things that they didn’t mean.

Shawn was pissed and Carlton knew it.

He pulled open the door to the fridge. A plate with potatoes, ham, and pineapple sat on the shelf, covered in plastic wrap. He pulled it out and popped it into the microwave, starving after having not eaten since five thirty earlier that day. Or was it the day before, now?

Brushing it off, he pulled it out and took a few bites, thanking the lord that his boyfriend was a better cook than he was. As he chewed, he thought about the tone he’d heard in his voice. He could recognize it anywhere. It had been clipped and short, and he hadn’t said anything more than he’d needed to. Shawn was good at being angry, and was usually right when he was, and that’s what bothered the detective so much. That he was _right_ to be angry with him.

He sat down at the table and finished his dinner, wondering if he should wash it down with a beer, but then remembered. Shawn had removed all alcohol from his apartment when he’d moved in. What was the phrase he’d used? Oh, yes. That he didn’t want him “lost weekending” if he was ever out of town. Shawn didn’t like it when he drank.

He got up and put his plate in the sink, and moved to the cabinet to pull out a glass to pour himself some water…and he did a double take at what he saw on the shelf.

Next to a crystal tumbler was a bottle of Booker’s Bourbon and on top of it, a yellow post-it-note.

_Lassi, I thought you might need a drink of something decent after some bad Irish whiskey. By the way, O’Hara sucks at lying._

A faint smile appeared on his lips.

Tomorrow. They would talk about it tomorrow.

 

 


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

Shawn was finally out of the damn chair and able to move around on his own…just, not very far. Every few feet he had to sit down and breathe through the pain that stabbed through him. Persistence, that was the key. That’s what Miguel had told him, anyway. The man that they sent over from the hospital to check up on him and his progress.

He had helped him and talked him through several basic exercises to help his shoulder, which still ached more than it should, as well as taught him how to stretch without agitating the stitches on his ribs. Each and every time he had come over that week, Shawn had proceeded to purposely butcher the Spanish language in an attempt to make the man laugh, which he did, loud and often, and for the fake psychic that was a victory in and of itself. He had felt his sense of comedic timing beginning to atrophy from being unable to be around someone so easily entertained, like Miguel. Carlton was like performing in front of a brick wall. Nothing.

Honestly, Shawn didn’t really care about his antics as he normally did. He wanted to get back on the case that Carlton had been working on for the past week undercover, building up trust with O’Daly.

That was the part that was bothering him the most. The fact that Lassi was undercover at a gay club. And not just any club, but D’Oro. He hadn’t yet told Carlton, but when he’d been dating he’d gone there more than a few times. He’d had a couple of guys catch his eye, but had only dated one of them seriously, a pretty boy named Adam.

He smiled as he thought fondly on him. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, and so, so _eager_ to please.

He sat in the kitchen chair a moment longer, and then stood up and took a few more steps, pleased that he wasn’t feeling any more stabbing pain. More like a dull ache that was settled just behind his ribs. It was annoying, but what was really bothering him was the lack of breathing if he stood too long. The doctor had told him it was because of the fact that his lungs still weren’t at full capacity, and when he stood for too long, it strained them more than they could take. That he had to acclimate them over time.

But he didn’t _have_ any time, dammit! Carlton was going out almost every night, getting hit on by guys prettier and easier to deal with than him, more pliant and looking for a man with dominance. He was the hunter and they were his more than willing prey.

Shawn felt his lungs starting to strain, both from suppressed anger and from standing for too long.

Growling in a manner that would make his boyfriend proud, he sat back down and then proceeded to glare at the door as he heard someone knock. He fully planned on ignoring it, but then a familiar voice yelled through the door, “Shawn, I’m coming in!”

Shit. It was his dad.

The first thing he heard the man say after he walked in and swung the door closed behind him was, “This is almost as bad as your room was when you lived at home. Geez.”

He heard the sounds of him navigating through the mess in the foyer, and then stared at him as he walked into the kitchen. He had a bag in his hand. As Henry put it on the table, he glanced around the surprisingly spacious area, and then looked back at him, his expression inscrutable.

“Brought over some barbecue from Billy’s. Figured you’d appreciate it, since Lisa certainly didn’t. She was more of a fan of…well, _other_ food…”

“I don’t need to know about your love life, Henry. So, leave the food without any of your usual director’s commentary. If that’s too hard, then just leave the food,” he added, reaching across the table and grabbing one-handed at the bag, dragging it over to himself. Billy’s barbecue was the best, after all. He wasn’t going to let it go to waste.

“Gee,” said his father as Shawn dug into the food, chewing noisily and with his usual lack of decorum. “And you wonder why Lassiter rarely eats with you.”

“For your information,” he said around a mouthful of pork, “Lassi eats with me regularly. Hell, I’m the one that cooks most of the time, anyway! I swear that man wouldn’t eat if I didn’t make him,” Shawn stated exasperatedly, taking another obscenely large bite of his food. “He just gets so _focused_ that he forgets to do the essentials: sleeping, eating, and, occasionally, shaving.” Shawn then tilted his head and swallowed his bite and added, “Mind you, not that I mind that not-shaving part. Scruffy is kind of a hot look on him. Especially when he comes home all ruffled, with the lines of his shirt and pants all skewed, his holster tight and his hair all messy, it makes me wanna just drop to my--”

“And that’s too much information,” Henry cut him off, pulling out his own food. “Look, I came by to make sure you were doing okay. Your mother insisted.”

Shawn took another bite, chewed, and then nodded.

“Yes, she would insist on it. I don’t think she understands that you don’t have that normal parental instinct to hover when your young’s been wounded. You tend to just…leave. You know. In the way that you’re so good at.”

“I believe picking up and leaving is more _your_ purview, Shawn.”

He glared at him with his mouth full, and then, after swallowing, said, “I resemble that remark. Now, shut up and eat. You don’t eat Billy Bob’s Barbecue any less than fresh and hot, and microwaving it to warm it up is not the same thing and you know it, so eat!”

Henry rolled his eyes, but didn’t respond, not bothering to argue with his son. After they had been eating for a few minutes in silence, his father finally said, dreading the conversation as he gestured with a fork in his hands, “So, uh…how are you doing with, you know…recovery?”

Shawn made a non-committal sound and tilted his head and replied, “Well, the Ron Kovic thing died pretty fast, but at least I can get out of the house and have lunch with my boyfriend again without having to use the wheelchair ramp at McTaggart’s Bar and Grill and making a total ass of myself, so, yeah. It’s going.”

His son then went quiet as he took another bite. Too quiet. Shit. Henry knew exactly what that meant. It meant that something was wrong. Shawn only ever acted normal and blasé about situations when they were anything but. If he was acting this way, then something was wrong, and not only that, but it was also making him angry. He could read the younger Spencer like an open book and everything from his neutral facial expressions and casual tone all the way down to his slightly tensed body language was telling him that he was angry. He always tried too hard to act normal when he was upset about something.

“What’s going on with Lassiter and why are you pissed at him?”

Shawn sputtered out, “What? What makes you think that I’m, I mean, I’m not—there’s no reason why I would—why do you think that?”, but Henry rolled his eyes.

“You’ve got a lousy poker face, Shawn. Seriously. What’s going on.”

Shawn put down his pulled pork sandwich and stared at an empty spot on the table, looking agitated, and then instead of him bursting out the words the way he usually did, like a petulant child who wasn’t getting his way, his voice was cold and hard as he said, “He’s working undercover on a case that he told me was closed. Evan O’Daly.”

Henry paused and put down his own food.

“I know that name. Uh, a small- time drug dealer in the club district, right?” he said, wiping off his mouth with a napkin. “Right before I retired I busted him for a possession charge, but he got off on a technicality. I remember he had a damn good lawyer.”

His son snorted and corrected him, saying, “Yeah, not so much small-time, anymore. Think less possession and more like definite intent to sell to anyone who comes into his field of vision. He’s located out of D’Oro, and Lassiter’s his newest acquisition in the selling trade. Oh, and he’s Irish mob, now.”

“Irish mob? Are you serious?”

Shawn nodded and shifted in his chair, right before standing back up, obviously feeling agitated.

“Yep,” he said, popping the p sound. “Irish mob. Alone. With only the FBI on a little earbud in his ear, telling him what a good boy he is and that he’ll get a biscuit and a pat on the head if he doesn’t screw it up. Meanwhile,” Shawn added, his tone going bitter, “He’s also investigating some recent homicides that have taken place near the club. Luckily, the feebs don’t know that, otherwise they would pull him off the case because they don’t care that two men died within a hundred feet of its’ doors, they only care about catching O’Daly, even if it means putting Lassiter’s life at risk!”

By the end of it, his chest was heaving and his breath was coming in uneven gasps, and Henry stood and put a hand on his shoulder, slightly worried that his son was over-exerting himself.

“Shawn? Are you okay?”

He shook his head and carefully sat back down, shrugging his father’s hand off him, not looking him in the eye. He looked back at his sandwich and then looked away and said, “I’m not hungry, anymore. Leave it for Lassi, though. He’ll want it when he comes home smelling like hormones and meth.”

Henry immediately protested with, “Shawn, you need to eat. Your mother said you’ve barely been eating. Why do you think I brought Billy’s over here, anyway?” His son’s eyes snapped up to his, but before he could snap out any biting or scathing retort, Henry said, “Look, I know Lassiter being undercover sucks, I get that. Heck, I did it to your mom more than once, and she’s never forgiven me for it. I once told her I was at a cop conference in San Francisco, when I was actually pulling some undercover work for vice for a week. When she found out, I got hell for it! So, I get that you're pissed, Shawn…but don’t take it out on him.”

At this, Shawn’s breathing finally seemed to even out and his body language shifted.

He looked up at his dad, uncertainty clouding his eyes, and he said in tone barely above a whisper, “I’m just scared for him, dad…”

God.

What the hell was he supposed to do with that? Henry let out a rough sigh, and sat down in the chair that he’d vacated only moments before. They were both quiet for a long time, neither of them touching their food, and then Henry broke the silence.

“Shawn…Lassiter knows what he’s doing. Should he have lied to you about closing the case? No, probably not. But I can understand why he thought he needed to.” He looked his son square in the eye and said, “He loves you, Shawn. And he _knows_ you. You either would have insisted on going with him, or you would have tried to convince him not to do it, to investigate the murders on your own. And he couldn’t take the chance of risking your life, too. You get that, right?”

Shawn rolled his eyes, but then nodded.

“Yeah…I guess I do.”

The tension between them lessened, Henry reached for his food once more, as did Shawn.

“What about leaving some for Lassiter?”

Shawn smirked.

“He’ll only get Billy’s barbecue when I think that he’s earned it. And I can think of several ways for him to do so…”

Henry put up a hand and groaned, “I don’t want to know.”

Shawn smiled.

 

 


	28. Chapter 28

** **

 

**Chapter 28**

“But I don’t wanna go!” Shawn whined.

Gus stood in the bedroom doorway of Shawn and Lassiter’s room, holding out one of Shawn’s nicer shirts in his direction, a stern look on his face.

“Shawn, you haven’t been out all week, and the fact that your dad came by last night to have dinner with you and you actually had a civil conversation with him tells me that you need to get out of the house! And, no, lunch with your boyfriend does not count as getting out of the house,” he said, cutting his friend off before he could protest. “Now, you are going to put on the damn shirt and we are going to go out and have a good time. If nothing else, you can get a bit drunk while I try to get lucky. Does that sound good to you?”

Shawn stared at the shirt, obviously annoyed, and then said, “Fine. But dude…you _know_ yellow isn’t my color.”

He pulled the shirt out of his hands and stepped past his friend into his room and wandered over to the closet, where he pulled out a purple button up. If he was going out, he was going to look damn fine, and so the purple shirt was the one he was wearing. It had gotten him lucky more times than he could count. Okay, so it had gotten him lucky once, but that was more than enough reason for him to wear it a second time. Hell, maybe if he wore it around his boyfriend, he would finally get laid.

Gus stared at him for a moment as he changed his shirt. He rolled his eyes and turned away, however, when Shawn dropped his jeans and reached in to pull out the tightest pair of pants that he owned. Of course. The man was an attention whore. It didn’t take much deductive reasoning to figure that one out.

With his back still to him, he said, “Okay, then. We’re going out. Since I am having to cater to your slightly broken state, where would be best for you?”

“Aw, man, you do care!”

Gus rolled his eyes.

“Shawn, don’t make me regret doing this.”

Spencer laughed and shook his head, and as he pulled his coat on and slid his wallet into his back pocket (how it fit, Gus did _not_ know, it defied all the laws of physics), he thought about where he wanted to go. And then it hit him. A devious smirk appeared on his face (which did not go unnoticed by his friend) and he said, “Well, I know a good place on the other side of town. They make a mean Shirley Temple and everyone there is always looking for a good time. A place called D’Oro.”

Gus’s face scrunched up slightly at the mention of the name, and he replied, “It sounds familiar…didn’t it open about three years ago?”

Shawn nodded.

“Yep. And they have an amazing set up, man. I’ve been there before, and let me tell you…it is _definitely_ your scene…”

Gus looked at his friend, wary of his words, considering that only a minute before, Shawn had been protesting leaving at all, but then brushed it off. All that mattered was getting him out of the apartment.

* * *

“You brought me to a gay bar?!” Gus hissed in his ear as they approached the bar, Shawn needing to sit down as his sides were starting to hurt.

“Dude, you wouldn’t have come otherwise! Besides, you blend in with your pink shirt and slacks, anyway,” he replied, glancing at his friend’s outfit: a pink button-up Armani shirt (Gus insisted that it was salmon, and not pink), tailored grey dress pants (generic store brand, but tailored by a professional after the fact to make them look nicer), and finely polished and buffed leather shoes which probably cost more than two weeks salary. Geez. He was more fashion conscious than a lot of the gay men that Shawn knew.

“Shawn, why are we here?” he asked, staying as close to him as possible as Shawn ordered them two drinks. “I thought you and Lassiter were doing fine. Why are you coming to a gay bar and dragging me along? You’re not…you’re not thinking about cheating on him, are you? Because, if you are, then I am _out_ of here…”

Shawn grabbed his arm and pulled him close, ignoring the suggestive look the bartender shot him as he did and said under his breath only loud enough for Gus to hear, “Lassi’s been working a case here, and I just want to see what he’s up to, okay? I’m worried things are gonna go all sideways, so I decided it would be best if I came here to keep an eye on things. You know,” he added, gesturing with his free hand, “Make sure that no one tries to…uh…well…you know…”

Gus pulled back slightly, suddenly realizing why his best friend was acting so weird.

“Oh. My God. We’re here because you’re jealous? You have _got_ to be kidding me, Shawn!”

“I am not jealous!” he protested. “I am just cautious and careful and worried and—oh dear god, there he is, hide me!”

He ducked his head behind Gus while Gus rolled his eyes, but he looked anyway and was slightly surprised to see Lassiter walking into the bar appearing a bit rougher than he’d ever seen him. He had about two days’ worth of scruff from not having shaved, and he wore tight jeans, beat up boots, and a leather jacket. Hold on…that leather jacket looked familiar. It looked _really_ familiar…

“Shawn, isn’t that the jacket you bought for Lassiter one year for Christmas but never gave him?”

The fake psychic nodded, while still trying to remain hidden, sipping on a virgin piña colada through a straw at an awkward angle as he practically plastered his upper body against the bar, trying to keep an eye on his boyfriend as he buried himself into the background. Shawn took a rather noisy sip, his straw slipping from his drink. The guy sitting next to them, a muscular, tanned blond, shot him a flirtatious smile and lifted the straw back into his drink. Shawn returned the look, but then ruined it by taking another long sip and then hissing, “Ah, brain freeze, brain freeze!”

He sat up, shoving Gus in front of him to stay unseen, and then said as he pressed a hand to his forehead to quell the headache brought on by his own stupidity, “Gus, tell me what he’s doing.”

“Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me, man! I am not going to be used as--”

“You can use my X-Box for the next two weeks.”

“Looks like he’s talking to some guy,” he quickly replied, multiplying in his head how many hours he could get in on Call of Duty: World at War, and if it would get him ahead of his friend for once.

Shawn took another sip of his drink and then said flippantly, “Gee, that’s so informative. ‘Some guy’. Wow. I never would have known that if I had looked myself, but, you see, I _can’t_ , because if Lassi sees me, then--”

“You’ll be sleeping on the couch again?” Gus interrupted, but Shawn protested and replied, “No! Instead, he will most likely withhold affection in the same way that I have been withholding it from him for the past few days. Hell, I even took to wearing peppermint chapstick. I’m not sure if he’s forgiven me for that, yet.”

Gus winced as he remembered Lassiter’s allergy and said, “Ouch, Shawn. That’s low, man. Even for you.”

The fake psychic shrugged his shoulders and stirred his drink with his straw and then peeked over Gus’s shoulder, trying to get a better look, but groaned under his breath when he realized that he couldn’t see very well from where he was, as most of the bar was backlit, and he was directly under the lights, making him see nothing but indistinguishable shadows of people gyrating on the dance floor.

“Describe the guy,” he muttered as he took another drink.

Gus squinted.

“Uh, tall. Like six foot one, easy. Brown hair, tanned. Nice clothes…uh, _hell-_ o, is that a Brunello Cucinelli? How the hell did he get his hands on one of those in Santa Barbara?” he mused out loud, letting out a low whistle of approval as he also recognized the brand of shoes and watch. “Uh, Shawn, this guy has to be your drug dealer, because there’s no _way_ anyone around here can afford an ensemble like that, _especially_ the suit.”

Shawn snorted and took another sip through his straw and said, “Bruno Coo-coo-cachoo? Is that name supposed to mean anything to me, man? What, it’s like, a couple hundred or something?”

His friend scoffed.

“Cucinelli, Shawn! And it’s more like nearly five grand.”

He coughed and spit up part of his drink as he retorted, “Five _thousand?_ Who spends that much on a _suit?_ ”

“Drug dealers, that’s who.”

Shawn tilted his head and nodded.

“Hm. You have a point there.” He then handed his drink to Gus and ignored his protests as he ran a hand through his hair and undid the first few buttons on his shirt…and then one more than was actually decent, and then said, “I have a plan.”

Gus snorted this time.

“Yeah, right. You? A plan? You must be out of your damn mind…”

Shawn threw him a dirty look and untucked his shirt from his pants and repeated himself, “I have a plan. It involves you buying a drink for O’Daly, the guy in the Bruno Mars suit, so that I can distract Carlton long enough to get the skinny on what’s going on with the cases that he’s investigating and see if I can help.”

“Uh, Shawn, there are nothing but holes in this plan. You do see how this is going to go wrong, don’t you?”

His friend ignored him and instead turned around and then threw over his shoulder, “I can’t hear you, man, because I’m too busy being fabulous. Now, order that man a drink or I’ll end up ruining Lassi’s cover. Now, you don’t want that on your conscience, do you?”

He strutted away (it was a strut, and nothing anyone else said could convince Gus otherwise) and Gus panicked. Shit. He was going to have to do this, or else, just as Shawn had said, he would end up ruining the head detective’s cover. Quickly, he turned to the bartender and gave him his most ingratiating smile and said, “Can I order that man over there a drink? The one in the Cucinelli? Whatever his usual order is will be fine.”

The bartender smirked and began to pour JJ&S Dublin Whiskey over two ice cubes, and said, “You know your suits.”

Gus shrugged and tried not to grin as he replied, “Not to boast, but I _do_ know fashion...” He paused and glanced at the man’s nametag. “…Cory.”

Cory smiled, a perfectly white grin, and then made a motion towards O’Daly, two fingers in the air. The man looked over at just the right time. Shawn had sidled up to his boyfriend during the distraction and grabbed his arm, quickly dragging him away from the couches on the edge of the dance floor, over to the very shadowed corner of the restrooms. Cory nodded and pointed at Gus, showing he was the one who had bought the man the drink and O’Daly headed towards him, along with one of his bodyguards.

Gus’s stomach clenched as it finally hit him that he had just bought a drink for a drug dealer.

“So,” the Irish mobster drawled as he picked up his drink and gave Gus a once over that left him feeling decidedly uncomfortable. “Wha’s a boy like you buyin’ a drink for a guy like me?” He threw back the whiskey like a shot and Gus simply shrugged and decided to tell the truth. Well, part of it.

“I like your suit.”

O’Daly grinned and then leaned in and offered a hand, saying, “My name’s Evan, boyo. Now,” he added as he pushed into Guster’s personal space, his hand too tight around Gus’s fingers, nearly crushing them as he hissed into his ear, “I ‘preciate the gesture, but if you dare try an’ buy me a drink again, I’ll shoot your knees out. You’re a straight man in the wrong place. Now get out, you piece of shit.”

Sufficiently scared, and deciding that Shawn could fend for himself, he nodded and left the bar quickly, glancing over his shoulder as he went, only seeing the vague shadows of Carlton and Shawn, who seemed to be on his knees on the floor. _Lassiter probably punched him_ , he assumed, and quickly walked out to his car, pulling it around the corner, deciding he couldn’t abandon his friend completely. He would wait until he showed up with a nice bruise on his jaw.

 

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

Shawn made his way over to Carlton, and timed it just right as O’Daly turned away, and then dragged his boyfriend in the direction of the bathrooms. It took Lassiter a second to recognize that it was Shawn, and the instant he did, he was livid, his face flushing a bright red as he hissed, “What the _hell_ are _you_ doing here?”

“I was getting out and having a drink with Gus, Lassi. Now, would you please focus? I’m here to help you,” he said, eyeing Lassiter up and down, realizing just how well those jeans fit him and just how nicely his shoulders filled out the coat without a suit underneath it. God, he looked amazing. He pressed a hand to his chest, noticing a faint sheen of sweat from the heat of the club, and Spencer longed to rip the shirt from Carlton’s body and taste whatever skin he could find.

However, Lassiter continued to glare.

“Spencer,” he growled out, his eyes sparking, “You’re gonna blow my cover!”

Shawn quirked an eyebrow, saying the first thing that popped into his head.

“Or I could just blow you.”

“I’m not here to…wait…what?”

Shawn grinned at seeing the wind suddenly taken out of the head detective’s sails, and in a fit of inspiration he dropped down to his knees in front of him, and then slid his hands up Lassiter’s thighs, gently squeezing as he did so. He then gave his boyfriend a wicked smirk and said, “You heard me, Lassi. So…whaddaya say? Wanna be naughty?”

He moved his right hand further up and teasingly traced the outline of his zipper, which was already starting to become strained, and his grin stretched even wider at what he felt and saw, while Lassiter was silently grateful that the FBI hadn’t made him wear an earbud that night.

“Oh, well, it looks like little Lassi is totally up for it,” he quipped. “Or Lassiter junior?” Lassiter tried to growl out a response, but it was swallowed up in the groan that escaped him as Shawn cupped him through his jeans, and he hardened further underneath his boyfriend’s firm touch. Fuck. That felt _way_ too good.

“Spencer,” he finally managed. “If you dare try and give it a nickname, I _will_ shoot you.”

Shawn squeezed him a second time, and Lassiter’s knees about gave out from under him at the exquisite pressure, and the younger man replied with, “You know, I happen to know you’re actually serious about that threat, so I’ll do as you ask, but Lassi…you’re about to get your trailer hitch polished.” And then, without preamble or any time for Carlton to protest, he had lowered the zipper and pulled him out, exposing him to anyone who might walk by. Lassiter stiffened, and he growled, “Are you trying to get us arrested for public indecency?”

The fake psychic shook his head, swiping a tentative tongue over the head, and Lassiter cursed, banging his head forcefully against the wall.

“Nope, not at all. Just, you know,” he said, grabbing hold of him firmly with one hand as his tongue continued to take teasing licks of his cock between every phrase. “Waxing the carrot, charming the snake, laying some lip, licking the lollipop, meeting mister one eye…”

Carlton cast a furtive glance around, certain they were going to get caught, but at seeing no one looking in their direction, he reached down with hand and fisted his fingers into his boyfriend’s hair and tugged at it, saying, “Shawn, either shut up or just--”

Suddenly, he felt hot, wet suction as he was swallowed down by a _very_ willing mouth.

Holy. Fuck.

He hit his head hard against the wall, closing his eyes, unable to do anything but lose himself in the sensations. Shawn knew what he was doing, that was for sure. He was moving his tongue along the underside while keeping a tight, wet seal around the rest of him.

Carlton looked down and his hips involuntarily thrusted forward at seeing Shawn’s cheeks hollowed out as he gave him the best blow job that he’d ever received. Shawn didn’t choke on the movement, but moved with it, as if he’d been anticipating it, one hand pressing against his hip, the other one coming up and wrapping itself around the base of Lassiter’s cock. Fuck. He let out a grunt as he felt Shawn take more of him down, and tried to restrain himself from simply thrusting forward.

His mouth was…perfect. So hot and wet, his thick tongue adept at teasing him every step of the way.

His head bobbed along his erection, taking him in, not leaving a single bit of him untouched, and it took all of the detective’s effort to remain standing with each and every hot, slick slide between his lips, which were stretched obscenely around him, taking in every inch without complaint. That was an image that was certain to never leave him, he thought to himself as he tightened his fingers in the psychic’s hair and pulled. Shawn hummed in pleasure when he tugged and his knees just about gave out from under him at the sensations vibrating along his cock. Shit. He wasn’t sure he could last much longer.

As if he really _could_ read minds, Shawn pulled off and teased at the underside of his head with his thumb, rubbing it along the ridge, drawing a choking gasp from the detective, and said in a dull tone, as if he hadn’t just been sucking on Lassiter’s cock, “You know, you could just come already and then you can return the favor to me when we get home tonight,” and then leaned back in to suck hard and take him once more into his hot and willing mouth, looking up at him with hooded eyes as he did.

Fueled by arousal, adrenaline, and the fear of being caught, Carlton felt his whole body tense, his balls drawing up tight against him, and he closed his eyes for a brief moment as he came in wet spurts onto his boyfriend’s tongue.

“Fuck…Shawn…”

He hummed a second time, as if savoring the taste, waited until he’d rode out his orgasm, and then licked him clean. Spencer then tucked him back into his pants and said, “We’ll get to that part later, babe. But don’t worry…like I said before,” he added, standing up and leaning in, pressing a teasing kiss to his neck as he finished zipping him back up, “I’m a more than willing bottom…”

Carlton groaned and then reached up with his hand and placed it along the psychic’s neck and leaned his forehead against Shawn’s, trying to catch his breath. He’d just been given a blowjob in the middle of a club and not gotten caught. Not something he would ever do again, but it was one hell of an experience. However, as the adrenaline wore off, he saw O’Daly walking back in their direction, and reality came crashing back down on him. He was undercover, goddammit, and Spencer was about to ruin it. Shit.

“Spencer,” he said, his tone harsh and unforgiving, “You need to go.”

“Nope. Not happening.”

He hissed at him.

“I don’t have time for this, Spencer! O’Daly is headed this way and if you blow my cover, I’ll--”

But before he could finish his sentence, the Irish mobster was suddenly only a foot away, with an odd smile on his face as he took in the younger man who was plastered to his new dealer’s side. Shawn, instead of being properly scared, seemed amused by the whole situation, making Lassiter even more tense.

“Now, who’s this?” O’Daly asked, smirking. “Hope you’re not cheatin’ on your boyfrien’ with this boy toy, Lassiter…”

“I _am_ the boyfriend, actually,” said Shawn, turning towards the man, his hip pressed tightly against Lassiter’s. “Wanted to surprise him. Called a friend who said he was headed in this direction, and decided that an impromptu Brentwood Hello would be just the thing to calm him down.” Carlton felt his face flush in embarrassment, but Spencer didn’t give him any time, and added as he reached out a hand, “Name’s Carlton. Carlton Spencer. But you can call me Carly.”

He saw a muscle twitch in his boyfriend’s jaw at the mention of the name, but said nothing as the drug dealer shook hands with him and said, “I’ll jus’ call you Spencer. Last names are easier to deal with, an’ I don’ like nicknames.”

“Aww, does that mean he doesn’t let you call him Lassi?” asked Spencer, batting his eyes at Carlton, who glared at him.

“Spencer,” he growled out, making sure to keep his Irish accent. “He an’ I have business. How ‘bout you go get yourself a drink and wait for me at the bar, alright?” He slapped him on the ass hard and gave him a pointed look, raising an eyebrow in his direction, and, for _once_ , the psychic seemed to get the message.

Shawn pressed a quick kiss on his lips, his fingers groping at Lassiter’s ass for a moment in brief retaliation, and then pulled back and said, “Sure, Lassi. I’ll just park myself on the end stool over there like a good dog. Come and get me when you’re done.” He let out a mocking ‘woof’ and then he turned and sauntered back to the bar, swinging his hips more than he needed to, making it almost comedic…if it weren’t for the fact that he seemed to draw the eye of almost every single male in the place as he did so, which caused Carlton’s hackles to rise.

 _Dammit, Spencer,_ he thought to himself as his eyes quickly scanned the crowd, wondering if their killer was there. _You’re gonna get yourself killed._

He turned back to Evan and apologized, saying, “Sorry ‘bout him. He’s…”

“Don’ worry ‘bout it,” O’Daly replied, crossing his arms over his chest and smirking. “He seems a force to be reckoned with.”

Lassiter snorted.

“That he most certainly is.”

The drug dealer chuckled at that and then said, dropping his arms and putting his hands in his pockets, “Well, now that your dog’s out of the way and back on his leash, how ‘bout you an’ I do some business?” Lassiter nodded and they went back to the couches, where O’Daly then drawled out, “We’re lookin’ into gettin’ some money from the locals, no’ just the tourists. You seem to be drawin’ eyes, an’ that’s good for us. I was hopin’ you might be willin’ to take over Mark’s old route.”

This was the opportunity that he’d been hoping for. One of the old routes. He was more likely to find who their killer was if he knew places where the drugs were being ferried through.

“Sure, I guess,” Carlton said carefully, not wanting to sound too eager, reaching forward and picking up a shot glass from the table. He threw it back and then leaned back against the couch as casually as he could and then said, arching an eyebrow in his direction, “What’s in it for me?”

O’Daly laughed and replied, “More money, o’ course. Say, five grand?”

Lassiter smirked.

“I can work wit’ that.”

Evan gave him a dark smile, and then glanced down at his own drink before throwing it back, and then leveled his eyes with the detective’s and said, “I figured you would. Now, ‘bout your boyfriend. Carlton Spencer. Like, I said, he seems to be a bit of a handful, so…is he gonna be causin’ us any problems?”

Lassiter looked over his shoulder towards the bar, where Shawn was currently leaning too far over the bar, blatantly showing off one of his best _ass_ ets and flirting with the bartender, all in a feeble attempt to make his boyfriend jealous, but all Carlton was, was irritated. He ground his teeth for a moment as he thought of how casually Spencer had offered up Carlton’s name, as if _he_ would ever take his last name…Shawn Lassiter had a much better ring to it, after all.

Suddenly realizing he hadn’t answered the question, he covered by turning back around and picking up another drink and saying, “No. No problems.” He took a sip and then added, “I can always handcuff him to the bed,” and at that, O’Daly laughed and replied, “Not a bad idea, mate,” and lifted his tumbler in salute, to which Carlton returned to favor, and they both finished off their Irish whiskey.

However, in the back of his mind, Carlton vowed to make sure that Shawn stayed out of it.

He was _not_ letting him get hurt this time.

 

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

Chief Karen Vick glared at her head detective, tapping her pen in an uncharacteristic manner on the edge of her desk. He was sitting stock straight in his chair, barely moving a muscle. She glanced over at Spencer, who sat next to him, and he was resolutely avoiding any and all eye contact with either of them, both of his feet propped up on the chief’s desk, his hands resting casually across his stomach. She looked back at Lassiter, her shoulders and body language tense.

She pressed her hands onto her desk, leaning into them for support, and then let it out.

“You _let_ him onto the case?”

At this, Carlton looked up, immediately on the defensive.

“Let me clarify, Chief, I did _not_ let him onto the case, he _invited_ himself and before I was able to forcibly remove him from the situation, he was put into the unfortunate position of having to come up with an alias on the spur of the moment, of which, I have to state for the record, I do _not_ approve of!”

Karen looked down at the paper and then back up at Spencer, trying not to smile in amusement as she read out loud, “Carlton Spencer?”

Shawn shrugged and replied, “What? It has a nice ring to it, and I thought I might actually get to hear someone call me Carly, but no! Mister-grumpy-pants here insisted on calling me by my last name! As did his new boss, who, I might add, is _far_ too charming to be our killer.”

“Charming?” chimed in Gus from the corner, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “He threatened to shoot me in the kneecaps, Shawn! That’s about as far from charming as you can get!”

“Pff, that doesn’t mean anything, Gus! He doesn’t do the dirty work, trust me on this!” He put a hand to his head and then lowly intoned, “The spirits have also informed me that none of his bodyguards are the killer, as well. It _is,_ however, someone in his circle of influence, that much I can say.”

Lassiter glared at him and opened his mouth to shout, but Vick cut him off with, “Have they, Mr. Spencer? Well, in that case,” she added, standing up from her chair and leaning forward on her hands, “Perhaps you can tell me what the spirits have told you about our case that is supposed to be a secret from the local FBI.”

At this, the psychic detective squirmed in his seat and then dropped his feet and replied, “Look, they’re coming in and out on this subject, but I do know that the person in question is still frequenting the club, and has a personal vendetta to settle. The spirits are also telling me that they do not like Agent Kessler one little bit, and they are strongly suggesting that I be put onto the case, as well, to keep our prestigious Head Detective out of harm’s way.” He said the last part with a pointed look at his boyfriend, who avoided looking at him, instead keeping his eyes firmly ahead, his back ramrod straight.

“Chief, I want him off this case.”

She glanced between the two of them, and then said, “Mister Spencer, you’ve only just recovered from your injuries and I don’t want you anywhere _near_ someone who regularly uses violence as a motivator…” Carlton couldn’t help but smirk a little, but it turned into a look of shock as Vick finished with, “…However, under the circumstances, it seems it might be better to have you _on_ the case instead of off it.”

Shawn hissed out “Yes!” and pumped his hand in the air, at the same time as Lassiter started to protest.

“But, Chief--!”

“I know you don’t want to hear it, detective, but if Mr. Spencer can look into the murders, then it will give _us_ a better chance at keeping the FBI from finding out about the case. This way, one of you is investigating one case at a time, and not both at once. Since _he_ seems to have a lead on the murders, then _he_ will investigate them under SBPD _supervision_ ,” she emphasized, arching an eyebrow in the fake psychic’s direction. She then looked back at Lassiter and said, “You finish up with O’Daly as quickly as you can, Detective Lassiter, and then you can join our resident psychic. Meanwhile,” she added, grimacing, “It would be better if you two maintained your aliases for the time being.”

“Dude, I get to date Lassi undercover!” Shawn said over his shoulder to Gus, and his friend snorted and replied, “You’re dating him in real life, Shawn! What’s the big deal?”

“Fake dating trope, man, get with the times! It’s like Lassi and I are in our very own fanfiction story. It’s totally cool! But, that’s beside the fact,” he said, shrugging. “The big deal is that we are, _officially_ …on the case.”

With that, Shawn pumped his fist in the air a second time and jumped up from his chair and went to give Gus a high five, but Gus merely gave him a look and shook his head, not returning it.

“Oh, c’mon, dude! Don’t leave me hanging!”

“I _will_ leave you hanging, Shawn, because we are not on the case for any other reason than you dragged us into the middle of this mess! This was _not_ in my plans! I was not planning on spending all my free time chasing after a murderer for the next week!”

Shawn scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“Oh, c’mon, man. You know me. It’ll take three days, tops.”

Gus rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, not looking at him, muttering unintelligible insults under his breath. Shawn glared, but his friend ignored him and stormed out of the office. Spencer stared after him for a moment, and then turned and walked over behind his boyfriend’s chair, rubbing the head detective’s shoulders and saying, “At least we’ve got each other, Lassiopolis.”

Carlton shrugged off his hands and stood up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he did so. He then turned and glared at his boyfriend, seething, his eyes hard and his tone as cold as ice as he hissed at him, “Dammit, Spencer. I tried to keep you off the case for a reason!”

“But, Lassi…”

“No! I don’t want to hear about how you ‘divined’ anything, Spencer!” he barked out harshly, using air quotes in a bitingly sarcastic way. “I don’t want to hear about spirits or energies, or anything about any of that mystical mumbo jumbo! I kept you off this case because I know what O’Daly is like, and if he even _suspects_ that something is wrong, he will have you taken care of, and not in a nice way,” he added, putting up a finger and cutting off any humorous or flippant remark that Shawn might have had at the tip of his tongue at hearing the phrase ‘taken care of’. “After the hell you and I have already gone through with Richards, I wasn’t willing to take the risk a second time, which is why I volunteered for this assignment in the first place, Shawn!”

Shawn was silent for a moment, but then said in soft, but hard voice, “You volunteered?”

Even Vick winced at seeing this exchange. She had told Carlton to tell Spencer about the case, but he had refused and even lied to him, telling him the case was closed. This wasn’t going to turn out well, and she felt awkward sitting there behind her desk. Trying to let them maintain some dignity and privacy, she stood and closed the file folder and moved towards her office door. Just before she left, she carefully stated in a subdued tone, “Just…keep my office in one piece.”

Neither of them seemed to hear her, but when the door shut behind her, it broke the stillness, and Shawn snapped.

“Look, I knew they had probably _asked_ you to do it, but you fucking _volunteered?_ How… how could you?”

“How could I what?”

Shawn snorted.

“Oh, no you don’t. You don’t get to play dumb with me, Carlton,” he snapped back at him, taking a bold step forward, invading his personal space the way he did when he wanted to take people off guard. First names. It was serious. “First of all, you came home and you _told_ me that it was a closed case. Lie number one. The second lie, after I found that not _only_ was the case not closed and that you were also undercover, was when you let me _assume_ that _they_ were the ones to assign you to the case!”

His chest heaved, and his eyes were as sharp as knives. Oh, he was beyond pissed. In fact, he looked ready to slug him…and Carlton didn’t blame him one bit. He had every right to.

Finally, after a tense silence, he said in a cautious tone, “Shawn…please. Don’t put me in this position.”

Spencer simply gave him a look, his mouth quirked into an odd half smile that Lassiter immediately recognized. That was the look that the detective had only seen once or twice before: it was the look he gave when he was forced into a corner. The look that usually precipitated him leaving without a word of forewarning, disappearing into the night with not even a note left behind. He’d seen it after the Sherry case several years ago, when they’d saved Juliet.

He had looked at Juliet with that look when he thought no one had been looking (Lassiter had), and then he’d then disappeared for three months.

However, instead of him pivoting on his heel and leaving without even a word of goodbye, his boyfriend took him by surprise when he looked him firmly in the eye and said, “Too late, Carlton. I’m here and you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

At hearing that, Lassiter let out an inward sigh of relief…

…too soon.

Shawn suddenly launched himself at him and then pinned the detective against the Chief’s desk, his hands on either side of his thighs. Their hips touched significantly more than was appropriate in a work setting, and then he leaned up so that their lips were almost touching and whispered in a seductive tone, “I’ve always wanted to do it on a desk…”

Lassiter glared.

“Spencer… This is the Chief’s office. I _will_ shoot you,” he growled, and the younger man simply smirked and then abruptly pulled back and sauntered towards the door, throwing over his shoulder as he went, “Oh, dear, dear Lassi…when are you ever going to learn that threatening to shoot me is only one of my biggest turn ons?”

He left the door open, not bothering to close it, while Lassiter tried to pull himself back together. He stood up and adjusted his suit coat, tugging at it until it covered a certain anatomical area. It was all too easy for his boyfriend to rile him up and he wasn’t going to caught sporting an erection while at work. He took several deep breaths, willing it away with an image of Woody in a speedo, and let out a sigh of relief as his problem disappeared. One problem down.

He stepped outside feeling much more collected and in control…but then groaned when he saw Spencer sitting in his desk chair, his feet up on his keyboard, all the while throwing him over-exaggerated sultry looks, raising his eyebrows and pouting his lips, much to the amusement of his partner, who was trying to keep a straight face, but obviously failing as he could see the corner of her mouth twitching like mad as she tried to keep from laughing.

“Lassi, c’mon,” Shawn yelled across the bullpen. “Let’s figure out our cover stories! I’ve already decided that we met at a wet-t-shirt contest at Leadbetter Beach during a fraternity-sorority mixer my freshman year of college. I, of course, in the white t-shirt and micro-denim cutoffs, whereas _you_ , a dashing alumni, were wearing a fetching Depeche Mode t-shirt while I was dosed from my fabulous head down to my glorious feet with water. When you saw me, you knew it was love at first sight. I, on the other hand, was in a torrid whirlwind romance with an Italian hand model at the time, and it took much of your effort to win my heart…”

Carlton tightened his jaw.

One more problem to go.

 

 

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SOOOO SORRY this chapter took so long! I struggled with it so much, but I finally got my muse back. It abandoned me, I tell you! It ran off and hid and I had to hack through nightmares of jungle's worth of writers block to find it!! But I have it back and I will hold onto it for as long as I can, until it escapes me once more and disappears into the trees. Here you go! ENJOY!!

**Chapter 31**

The detective changed into his clothes at the apartment, trying not to notice the dirty looks Spencer was sending in his direction as he pulled on another one of his too-tight shirts. He let out a sound of disappointment as Lassiter threw on the leather coat, and he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Spencer, this is what I have to do. If you show up tonight, O’Daly will know that something is up. Right now, it’s better if we played a couple arguing. You can’t show up every night without him getting suspicious, and you know it.”

Shawn snorted.

“Well, considering I’m still pissed at you, it shouldn’t be that hard,” Shawn snapped back at him, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his tone.

Carlton was still confused at his boyfriend’s attitude. Out of all people, the fake psychic knew what it meant to keep an undercover persona, but he was taking it more personally than he should have. He had also constantly been switching between flippant and completely carefree and… _this._ Pissed off. His mercurial attitude wasn’t helping the detective any as he mentally slipped into his David Lassiter persona. He wanted to make it up to him, but he simply didn’t have the time during this case.

 _Finish the case,_ he mentally told himself. _Finish the case,_ then _deal with Shawn._

He took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

He could do this.

* * *

At the club, O’Daly handed him a black backpack and said, “New product. Take it to King Street, the regulars will know you’re the new one.”

Lassiter nodded and headed out, relieved that, once more, he didn’t have to have Kessler in his ear.

Even after a little over a week of actually selling drugs for the man, he _still_ wasn’t comfortable with it, but Agent Kessler assured him that it was worth it to get O’Daly off the streets for good. He made his way over to the address (which happened to be in the busiest part of town) that O’Daly had given him.

It had only been twenty minutes, and he’d already sold to two people: a woman in her late twenties (but looked like she was in her forties) who had a raspy smoker’s voice, and a regular average-looking young guy with a blue backpack. From the way the guy had dressed, Lassiter pegged him as a student from the local university. As he’d handed him the small bag, the guy had walked off without even bothering to look around to see if anyone had seen him. Obviously, he’d done it before, as it seemed that he was past caring.

He stood there for another twenty minutes, trying to decide when he should leave and move on to the next location O’Daly had given him, but then a shadow of movement from the back part of the alley caught his attention.

“So…you’re the one taking my place, huh?” said a familiar voice…and Lassiter suddenly realized who it was. The guy who had plastered himself to him when he’d bought his first stash of evidence: Mark. Unlike last time, however, he was fully clothed, wearing blue jeans, boots, a blue t-shirt, and a leather jacket.

Trying to avoid a confrontation, Lassiter simply nodded and replied, “Looks like. Nothin’ personal ‘bout it. Jus’ followin’ orders.”

Mark nodded.

“I know. Looks like you’re good at it, too. Surprising, really,” he drawled, drawing closer and walking a small circle around him, looking him up and down. “I would totally peg you as a top, not as a pushover-bottom.”

Lassiter snorted. The guy was trying to goad him. He wasn’t falling for it.

Instead, he retorted, “I jus’ know when not to bite the hand that feeds me, if you know what I mean…”

Mark nodded again, and then stopped in front of him, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. He gave the undercover detective another once-over and then arched an eyebrow and said, “Too bad. I like it when a little bit of teeth is involved.” He leaned in, his mouth inches from Lassiter’s. “And if it’s from someone like you, I’d make an exception to my no two-times rule.”

Carlton didn’t look away, even though he was disgusted. Shawn was the first guy that he’d been attracted to since college. He didn’t really see himself as bi-sexual, more as heteroflexible. To quote a movie that Shawn had forced him to watch, he was straight, but “shit happens.” However, he didn’t have the _least_ amount of attraction to anyone who threw themselves at practically anything that moved…like Mark.

He tightened his jaw and hissed out, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

The younger man shrugged and brushed him off as he wasn’t even there.

“I go where I want. I’m not dealing, so you can’t go telling Evan that I was trying to steal back my route. I mean,” he added, reaching for his wallet and pulling out a couple of hundred dollar bills, “I’m a paying customer, after all.”

He handed him the money, and Carlton reluctantly pulled out one of the bags and Mark grabbed it, as well as his hand, and drew himself in uncomfortably close.

“I’d let you ride me all night long,” he hissed out, holding on just a bit tighter to his fingers. “C’mon, I bet your boyfriend hasn’t put out and that’s why you’re wound so tight, am I right?” Carlton said nothing and tried to take back his hand, but Mark laughed, and then added, “I know about the deep throating he gave you in the club. He’ll do anything to keep you happy, except let you tap his ass. Let me guess…all of his previous relationships have been with women and even though he _says_ he’s a catcher, he hasn’t gone bottoms up for you yet and you’re worried he’s not gonna because he’s learned that he likes to top and isn’t willing to give it up. Am I right?”

Slightly disturbed that he’d figured it out before Lassiter was even aware of it, he forcibly pulled back his hand and replied, “Tha’s none of your business, boyo. You paid. Go.”

Mark smirked.

“Just remember, David,” he drawled out as he slowly walked away, putting his hands in the air. “I’m eager, already prepped, and more than willing to be your first…”

Carlton sneered.

“No’ interested.”

Mark shrugged and then walked off, looking for all the world like he’d just won the fight…and perhaps he had. He had just cut straight to the core of the problem that the detective didn’t want to take too close of a look at. He and Shawn had been living together for almost two months, and they’d kissed plenty of times...but the time in the club had been their first time doing something so… _intimate_. And maybe that was how Shawn wanted it. Maybe he was keeping distance between them on purpose because he’d been lying about being a, well, a catcher.

He also teased him quite often, making blatant comments about how eager he was to get him out of his pants…but, due to Lassiter’s work schedule and Shawn’s unplanned _Nightrider_ marathons with Gus, they actually hadn’t an uninterrupted night for just the two of them in weeks. Which was strange in and of itself. Maybe Shawn was doing it on purpose…

…but he shut off that line of thought as soon as it appeared.

Instead, he tried to think of something else as he moved to the next location, which was on another busy street, but Mark’s words lingered uncomfortably in the back of his mind.

_You’re worried he’s not gonna because he secretly likes to top and isn’t willing to give it up…_

Shit. Why was it always the bad guys who could see other people’s problems and weaknesses so easily? Carlton knew that the meth-head was simply playing off of his insecurities about his relationship with Spencer, but he also knew that they were true. Shawn was bold and flirted with women on instinct; and sometimes on purpose, just to rile him up.

Before he could think on it any longer, his phone vibrated in his pocket, and he answered it without bothering to look at the caller ID. Bad idea.

 _“Lassi! Hey, how’s the drug dealing going? How much have you made in the past…say…hour? I’m guessing two-twenty-eight-fifty or so,”_ rattled off an irritatingly familiar voice.

Lassiter growled into the phone, and snapped back with, “First off all, Spencer, I am undercover and you don’t call someone on their phone when they’re undercover!”

 _“You’re not supposed to_ answer _your phone, either, so who’s really the pot in this metaphor?”_

He let out a frustrated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose, realizing that it was useless to fight him, and asked in a stressed tone, “Spencer, why the _hell_ are you calling me? First you say you’re pissed at me, and now you’re acting like nothing is wrong! Pick one so I know what I can and cannot say to set you off!” He then glanced at the money in his pocket…and he paled. “And how the hell did you know exactly how much I’ve made?!”

_“Look up.”_

He snapped his eyes around himself, trying to see where the bastard was hiding. Of course, he’d followed him. He glanced up and down the street, trying to see through the crowd of people and the bright neon store front lights…and then his eye caught on the plain, black Camry about two blocks over. Huh. He was expecting to see the blueberry. It looked like Spencer had actually done something right, for once.

“You’re following me?”

He snorted.

 _“Duh! You really think I was going to let you do this on your own? Yeah, I’m still pissed at you, but that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna have your back. By the way,”_ he added, a smirk in his tone, _“Black leather is_ totally _hot on you. When you get home, keep it on. I’ve got some_ serious _plans for that outfit. Yum. I mean, you look better than a pineapple smoothie, right now.”_

Lassiter rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help a small smile at hearing that. He was still angry and annoyed, of course, but he understood why his boyfriend was tailing him like a common criminal. He was worried about him. He could live with him being worried, but it bothered him that Spencer was putting himself in potential danger just to keep an eye on him.

He turned away from the direction of the car so Spencer couldn’t see his face, and then said into the phone, “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but following me to make sure I’m okay…it’s sweet.”

Spencer let out an over-dramatic gasp of surprise and replied in a horrible southern-belle accent, _“Do mah ears deceive me, or did you just pay me a compliment? Well, heaven’s to betsy, mah lawdy, bless my soul, I do declare--!”_

Lassiter cut him off.

“Okay, moment’s over. If you still want any of _this_ tonight,” he emphasized, pointing to his pants, knowing that Shawn most likely had binoculars on him, “Then you get your ass back home. Do you hear me? If any of O’Daly’s goons have been keeping an eye on me, they might have spotted you, and I don’t want to take that risk.”

 _“Pssh,”_ Shawn said, brushing him off. _“Just how dumb do you think I am? Unlike you, I can spot a tail from a mile off. Oh, and I’m holding you to your promise._ ”

“What promise?”

He let out a low chuckle and Carlton heard the car turn on through the phone as his boyfriend said with a leer in his tone, _“You’re wearing that outfit when you come home tonight.”_

“I never promised--”

_“See you tonight, Lassi-lips!”_

And with that, he hung up, leaving Lassiter in an awkward state of being both worried and horribly turned-on at the same time. Spencer had followed him. That meant that he’d seen Mark’s advances. Had he gotten close enough to overhear their conversation? Was that why he was suddenly being so forward? After a moment of thinking about it, he concluded that, no, it wasn’t possible. It was just Shawn being Shawn, which meant that he was being an unmitigated tease.

Letting out yet another sigh, he walked the last few yards to the next alleyway and set up shop.

After a minute, a girl no older than seventeen slipped up to him and dropped him three hundred-dollar bills. He handed her the drugs and watched her walk away with a heavy sigh. He still had more than half of the backpack to unload before the night was through, and he’d barely made a dent in nearly two hours.

It was going to be a long night.

 

 

 


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do I say I'm sorry? My life has been CRAZY BUSY, including getting the entire back brakes on my car completely replaced. Ugh. I now have a teaching assignment in church (so much irony considering what this chapter's about), and I've been pulling extra work training a new girl at work. I tried to make this chapter worth it, and resolve any questions people had about things going on between our two favorite characters. Please, tell me what you think!

**Chapter 32**

Spencer hopefully waited until one a.m., but then gave in and went to bed. Even if he stayed up, Lassiter would only bitch and moan about how tired he was, and he knew that it wasn’t the right time for any sheet-time shenanigans. Hell, _any_ time in the past few weeks hadn’t been the right time. They had made out a few times, and just a few days before he’d given Lassi a very thorough bj, but…it wasn’t enough.

Shawn wanted more. But at the same time, he wasn’t sure that Lassiter was ready. Lassiter hadn’t had a relationship with a guy before, so Spencer was hedging his bets and giving his boyfriend as much time as he needed. Whenever he realized he was coming on too strong, he pulled back, not wanting to pressure him.

And he was still pissed off at him for lying to him. Why the hell had he lied to him about going undercover? Especially now?

The two of them were _finally_ in a good place, but it seemed that Lassiter didn’t care enough about their relationship to stop and think about Shawn before making such a reckless decision. For the first time in Shawn’s life he was actually _trying_ to make a relationship work…and Lassi still seemed to treat him as an afterthought, whereas the younger man had gone out of his way to not always put himself first. Even when he was being reckless, Lassiter was the first thought in his head.

So, what, if Lassi said that he was trying to protect him…

_“After the hell you and I have already gone through with Richards, I wasn’t willing to take the risk a second time, which is why I volunteered for this assignment in the first place, Shawn!”_

He hadn’t even tried to talk to him about it. He’d simply made an executive decision and lied to him.

Fuck, Shawn wasn’t even sure if _he_ was ready for the next step in their relationship.

Not that any of his previous relationships were any standard to go by. Especially his last relationship with a guy: it had been (at worst) toxic, and (at best) a case of verbal and physical abuse. He’d been drawn to the guy because he was tall, dark, and brooding, just like another guy he knew.

His name was Aaron. He’d shown up in Shawn’s life at one of his lower times, and the fake psychic had clung to him like a life preserver, and Aaron had seemed to welcome it. He’d gladly let him use him to his heart’s content, he’d gladly let Shawn beg for him to fuck him senseless so he couldn’t even remember his own name…and then there had been the nights where he’d simply told Shawn that he didn’t have a choice, but Shawn had never said a word otherwise, and let himself be screwed into the mattress with little to no lube.

He was ashamed of how he’d let himself be sucked into such a relationship, but Aaron had made him feel as if he was _wanted_ , and that was all that had mattered to him at that time in his life.

So, now he laid in bed, wide awake, with his boyfriend snoring next to him at four in the morning.

The alarm would be going off in about three and half hours, but Shawn didn’t have the heart to see Lassi grumble and groan about getting practically no sleep, so he carefully reached over him and turned off the alarm, and then laid down beside him to watch him sleep. Sure, it was stalker-ish, but they shared a bed, so he didn’t think it really mattered.

Carlton was definitely more handsome when he wasn’t furrowing his brow or glaring at him for doing something wrong.

God, was he in love with him. Like…he would actually consider settling down. Permanently.

And that terrified him.

Feeling antsy, he quietly moved from the covers and slipped down the short hallway to the kitchen. Maybe cooking some waffles would make him feel better. He pulled out the ingredients and started…and the next thing he knew, over two hours had passed and he’d made more than enough waffles for the two of them. Hmm. Maybe he should call Gus.

As soon as the thought entered his head, he dismissed it. Nope. This was his time with Lassi. He had to make the most of it.

He had hoped that the detective would sleep, but at hearing the familiar cursing that usually accompanied Carlton’s waking up, he knew that his hope was dashed.

Carlton stumbled into the kitchen in nothing but his gray sweatpants and an old academy t-shirt, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and Spencer felt his heart clench at the sight. He wanted this every morning for the rest of his life, there was no doubt in his mind.

“Spencer,” Lassiter growled out, “Why do we have enough waffles to feed a small army?”

Shawn grinned, prepared to snap out a witty retort, but then, suddenly, instead he simply shrugged and admitted, “I got up early. I cook when I’ve got something on my mind…”

The older man squinted at him, as if not quite believing him, and then walked in and shouldered past him, grabbing a plate that had four waffles on it, and then grumbled in the psychic’s direction, saying, “Butter and syrup?”

“On the table.”

He grunted.

He then sat down and Shawn grabbed his own plate and joined him, originally thinking of trying to play footsie with his boyfriend under the table, but knew that he would be met with a swift kick to the shin if he did, so he instead settled for tucking his cold toes under Lassiter’s feet. Carlton gave him a look over his orange juice, but let it slide…and, possibly, returned the gesture with slight pressure and a faint smile on the corner of his lips.

As much as he was strict and seemed almost military in his adherence to protocol and rules, Shawn found it incredibly amusing that Lassiter was _not_ a morning person. Of course, Spencer figured with the _proper_ incentives, he could easily make his boyfriend change his mind about mornings. Shawn, on the other hand, was a morning _and_ a night person. Due to the curse of his photographic memory, most of the time he avoided sleep. Nightmares were a bitch.

They ate in silence, until Lassiter swallowed his last bite and said, “Sorry I came in so late last night. I know you had plans.”

Shawn shrugged.

“Not really. Just hopeful.” He smirked. “Always hopeful.”

At this, instead of snapping back a biting retort or adding more banter, the way he usually did, Carlton went quiet. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and then leaned forward in his chair, pulling his feet away from Shawn’s, and the fake psychic knew that something was up.

“Shawn, about that…I need to ask you something.”

“Sure, anything,” he said flippantly, trying to at least keep his side of the conversation light and tension free.

Carlton hesitated, but then boldly asked, “Do you want to sleep with me?”

Shawn snorted, nearly choking on the orange juice he had just taken a sip of, and then sarcastically drawled out, “Gee, no, I just wanted to mooch off you. I faked an illness on purpose so I could seduce you, get free room and board, and I tell you all my most intimate secrets because it’s fun watching you try to figure out whether or not I’m telling you the truth…”

He trailed off, and looked back at Lassi, an amused smile still on his face, but was disconcerted by the serious look on his boyfriend’s face. And that was when it hit him.

“Wait…you’re _serious_?”, Spencer said, incredulous.

Lassiter bit his lip and leaned back in his chair. He looked towards the window, and then looked back at Spencer. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, however, Shawn stood up from his chair, the feet scraping loudly against the wood floor, and cut him off.

“Carlton,” he hissed, “You have no _idea_ how badly I want you to screw me to into the nearest surface you can find! I am in love with you, in case you don’t remember!” He walked over to the detective’s chair and sat on his lap, his legs dangling on either side. He slid his hands over the older man’s broad shoulders and said, “I’ve been taking it slow for _you_ , you idiot.”

Carlton looked at him, obviously confused, and replied with, “What--? What do you mean…?”

Shawn snorted.

“I’ve done this before, babe. You haven’t.”

At that, Carlton smirked.

“And when did I ever tell you that you were my first?”

Spencer looked at his boyfriend, his mouth hanging open, and then finally, after a few seconds of trying to form coherent words, he said, “You…you…you gave off every vibe that you’d never done this before! How the hell was I supposed to know that you weren’t a gay virgin?! You’ve seemed to be perfectly happy with your heterosexuality the entire time I’ve known you!”

Lassiter put his hands on top of the younger man’s and said, “It’s called college, Shawn. Let’s just say that I was…non-discriminatory.”

Spencer grinned and leaned in and whispered into his ear, “You can be as non-discriminatory with me as you want, Lassi-ass, just…fuck me already. Please.”

Hearing those words seemed to have an effect on the head detective, as Shawn felt a certain part of his boyfriend’s anatomy poking him just under the thigh. Oh, thank God. He had been waiting for an opportunity like this for the longest time. The two of them, alone, with more than an hour before he had to be at work. Plenty of time. Thank _God._

“Shawn,” he breathed out, rubbing against him. “Are you…have you…shit…I mean…”

“I’m clean, and I know you are, too, so just _do_ _me_ already!”

At that, Lassiter let out a low growl and surged to his feet, Shawn quickly wrapping his legs around his boyfriend’s waist so he didn’t fall over. He was still a bit light from the weight he’d lost and he’d never been more grateful for it, as the detective made a beeline towards their bedroom. Yes. Finally.

As soon as they were in the room, Lassiter threw him on top of the bed. He then ripped off his shirt and growled a second time, saying, “Lose the clothes, Shawn…”

Grinning like an idiot, the younger man pulled his shirt off and shucked off his pants, never more happy that he’d gone commando…and that he’d prepped the night before. Just as Lassiter was going for his pants his fingers fumbled as he saw his boyfriend completely naked for the very first time.

Shawn’s grin turned to a knowing smile. Yeah, he looked good. He was vain and took good care of himself, and it was worth it, as he was _loving_ the look of absolute hunger that Lassi had directed at him.

The older man quickly dropped his sweatpants and was on the bed on top of him in a matter of seconds, and suddenly there was skin on skin and within moments, both of them were drunk on every touch that lingered in surprisingly sensitive places, drawing high, breathy sighs from Shawn and more low growls and groans from the detective. Lassiter had latched himself to Shawn’s neck, seemingly determined to mark him in every way possible as he sucked at his jugular like a vampire, and, god, that was turning him on more than he liked to admit.

Spencer slid his hand down and over the curve of his boyfriend’s ass, which was even more firm than he’d suspected. Fuck, the man was slender, but he was nothing but wiry muscle, and the fact that he wanted to make love to _him_ , of all people, just about blew his mind. In retaliation, he leaned up and managed to suck an earlobe, at which Carlton’s whole body shuddered and he involuntarily thrusted his hips downwards, causing both of their very frim erections to brush against each other.

“Fuck,” Carlton breathed into his ear, and Shawn grinned.

“That’s the idea, Lassi…”

As if trying to get even, one of the older man’s hands boldly moved down between Shawn’s legs and ran a finger over the cleft of his ass, and then Carlton froze at what he discovered.

“Are you…did you….?”

Spencer smirked and nodded, and then ran his tongue along Lassiter’s neck and said, “To answer your questions, Lass, yes, I’m ready, and yes, I prepped myself last night. Now,” he added, reaching down and pulling out the still lubed butt plug with practiced fingers, “ _Fuck me._ ”

Unable to help himself, Lassiter pulled back far enough to capture the younger man’s lips into a hot, messy kiss, both of their tongues fighting for dominion. However, as Carlton lined himself up with Shawn’s entrance and barely slid the tip in, he knew he’d won, as the psychic drew his mouth away from his to gasp out, “Don’t tease, Lassi, please, please, _please_ don’t tease…”

“Why shouldn’t I?” he retorted, feeling smug as Spencer writhed beneath him, turning into an absolute strung out mess as he arched his hips towards him, desperately trying to force Lassiter the rest of the way, but he held him down with both hands on his hips and said, “You tease me often enough…it’s time for some payback, I think.”

Frustrated, Shawn whined out, “I’ll let you handcuff me and torture me later, but _now_ is _not_ the time, _please, Carlton,_ I need you _in_ me…!”

And that was what he needed to hear.

He moved his hips the rest of the way forward and felt his breath punched out of him as Shawn’s ass clenched around his cock. Oh, God. He didn’t know how long he could last if he kept it up like this. But he controlled himself and slid back slightly before thrusting forward a second time.

Shawn whimpered.

“Carlton…”

And that was when Carlton lost it.

Unable to stop himself, he set up a brutal pace, savoring every flutter around his cock. As he moved in and out, sweat dripping down their chests and pooling between their hips, Shawn continued to say his name, over and over again, driving him up the wall with every intonation. He shifted slightly, and the younger man let out a high-pitched sound and he knew he’d hit the right spot. Grinning like a mad man, Carlton held the angle and pounded into him with vicious accuracy, getting closer and closer to the edge with every gasp of air and claw of fingernails on his skin.

He then suddenly paused, pulled out as far as he could without leaving him entirely…and then snapped his hips forward, and suddenly Shawn was coming in between them, having never been touched, and the sight and sound of it had Carlton gripping him deathly tight and holding him so firmly against him that he was certain that the younger man would have finger shaped bruises on his hips, and he came as well, deep inside of him.

It lasted longer than he expected and he struggled for air as he rode it out, even when Shawn was whimpering beneath him from over stimulation.

Slowly, as it died down, he pulled out, and then tried not to cringe as a wet spot was almost immediately formed beneath them, a combination of semen and lube. Ah, the downside of not using a condom.

He moved to the side and practically collapsed onto the mattress, while Shawn let his legs unbend and lay flat on the bed and muttered, “Fuck, I don’t think I can feel my legs…I mean…I had a hunch you’d be intense, but that was…hnghhh…yeah, you know…that was…well…fuck…”

Lassiter, despite being completely drained, smirked at the fact that he’d rendered him, mostly, speechless.

“So…it was good, then?”

Spencer let out a gasping, joyous laugh, a sound that Lassiter would never tire of, and said, “Are you kidding me, Lassi? If I had it my way, we’d never leave this bed.” The fake psychic turned onto his side and ran a hand over his boyfriend’s sweat-sheened side and then added in a softer voice, “As it is, however, you have a job to get to in about an hour.”

Carlton groaned.

“Shit. Do I have to?”

At the uncharacteristic moaning about his job, Shawn’s grin stretched even wider, and he let out a small chuckle and quipped, “Well, technically, _no_ , you don’t _have_ to, but you know what they say, babe…crime never sleeps.” He pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Even if detectives do.”

Lassiter gave him a look, one eyebrow arched, and then moved as if to head to the shower, but Shawn stopped him.

“Oh no you don’t, mister. I was the fuckee, so I get to clean up first. You can wait a few minutes.”

Carlton glowered at him and grinded out, “Your showers last longer any of my previous girlfriends’ showers, Spencer,” obviously annoyed at his quick assertion over the bathroom.

Shawn threw him a devil may care grin and sauntered into the bathroom, naked as a jaybird, completely self-assured and overly confident, and then threw back over his shoulder as he started the water, “It’s all about the hair, man! Gotta keep it hydrated!”

As he sat on the edge of the bed, the head detective rolled his eyes. Slightly irritated, but more blissed out than anything else, he stared at the open door to the bathroom fondly. Yes, his boyfriend was a complete mental case, yes, he wanted to shoot him more than several times a day, and, yes, he was, at _best_ , an immature man-child who flitted through the world as if he was a goddamn gift…

…But he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Carlton looked back at the bathroom one more time.

If they shared, they could always conserve more water.

He smiled.

 

 


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REALLY, REALLY happy with this chapter! I knocked most of it out in an hour, so I hope that you enjoy it! Updates should be more frequent, now that I have some free time on my hands again and less stress at work. Enjoy our two favorite boys as they solve their cases. ;)

**Chapter 33**

Back at the station, O’Hara had noticed a slight bounce in her partner’s step all morning, and it had continued up until lunch. She wondered if she should mention it, but the instant the thought entered her mind, she knew that if she said a single word about his good mood, he would immediately go back to acting surly and scowling at anyone who crossed his path, and she didn’t want to be responsible for that.

Instead, she decided to enjoy it while it lasted.

However, all of her guesswork was validated when Shawn came wandering in at around three, sporting a large hickey on his neck and a stupid grin on his face.

“Hey, Shawn,” she teased, approaching him with a file in her hand. “You seem to be in a good mood.”

He grinned back at her and quipped as he stared pointedly over her shoulder, “Oh, I most _certainly_ am, my fair Juliet. And for good reason.”

She glanced over her shoulder and saw Lassiter with their back to them, busying himself with something near the copier. He grabbed the papers, and picked up his coffee, a faint smile lingering on the corner of his mouth as he headed to the break room. Juliet looked back at Shawn. A grin was still permanently etched on his face. She bit her lip to keep from smiling like an idiot at seeing both of them so happy, but she couldn’t help but be happy for them. Particularly for her partner. He deserved it after all the shit that he’d gone through in his life, _especially_ over the past few weeks.

She then said, “So, you two finally, uh…you know…”

“Buttered the biscuit?” he supplied, and then kept on going. “Bumped uglies, did the dirty, danced the horizontal mambo, jumped each other’s bones, lusted and thrusted--”

“Shawn!” Juliet hissed at him, motioning for him to lower his voice, glancing around to make sure no one had overheard. “Geez, I should have known better than to bring it up with you! At least with Carlton the conversation would have been over in half a second,” she added, giving the psychic a pointed look, but he rolled his eyes and ignored her.

“I think Lassiter would most prefer the term ‘assaulted with a friendly weapon’,” Shawn drawled, giving her a look, arching a suggestive eyebrow in her direction.

She rolled her eyes and snapped back, “I don’t think he’d prefer _any_ term, actually, considering it’s his private life.”

“ _Our_ private life, now,” the young psychic corrected her. “Besides, I’m certain everyone here knows it by now. Let me guess,” he said, putting a finger to his head. “He’s been in a good mood all morning, only had half of a cup of coffee, instead of his usual three, and not snapped at anyone today so far? Oh, and he’s even been nice to McNabb…”

Juliet nodded.

“Yes to all of that, and then some. It’s kind of nice, but at the same time, very strange. I sort of miss the old Carlton.”

Shawn gave her a devious grin and then said, “Oh, give it a second. He’ll be back to his old self in no time. Trust me.”

Slightly nervous as to what he meant, she went back to her desk, unsure of what was about to happen as the younger man disappeared around the corner into the break room…but less than a minute later she heard an explosive shout of, “SPENCER!” and she had the vague idea that Shawn had done something decidedly stupid.

Juliet looked up to see Lassiter walking into the bullpen, a red mark on his neck, newly formed, and she knew that it would be bruising within the hour to form a hickey.

She blushed, trying not to think of how it got there, but how could she not? She wasn’t blind, after all. Carlton Lassiter was an attractive man, as was Shawn Spencer, and she would be lying if she said that neither of them had ever crossed her thoughts in the occasional fantasy, so the two of them together...she had to close off that line of thought fairly quickly, as she felt a part of herself warm that shouldn’t while she was on the job.

The head detective stormed out into the bullpen, but Shawn had already run out and bolted through the front doors.

Juliet looked back at her partner, who was standing in the middle of the bullpen, fuming, his good mood completely gone.

A cadet brushed too close to him as he walked by and Carlton snapped, “Watch where you’re going, cadet!” and then turned on his heel and headed back to the break room, most likely to grab the papers that he’d left in there. The female detective wondered for a moment whether or not he would tell her what had happened, but she quickly came to the conclusion that he wouldn’t. After all, it was _his_ private life.

When he came back out, he growled, “O’Hara, get me a copy of everything we have on O’Daly’s known associates. I think I might have caught a break.” She hesitated for a moment, but then he barked out, “Now!”, and she moved as fast as she could.

“On it,” she said, standing up and heading for the records room.

Yep. He was back to his old self alright.

She grabbed the files Lassiter had asked for…and then discreetly grabbed the file that they had on the murders, as well, as she had a hunch that she thought she might run by Shawn. Maybe he could get a psychic reading off it, and, if so, get them that much closer to catching their perp.

“Here,” she said, putting the O’Daly file on his desk, as she held the other one behind her back. “Everything on his associates, including associates of his known aliases.”

He grunted and flipped it open, silently dismissing her, and she bit her lip to keep from saying anything about it. If Shawn had upset him, now was not the time to get on his case about his manners. He was a big boy, he could handle himself after all.

Juliet quietly slipped away, and tapped on the door to the chief’s office.

“Come in.”

She walked in and closed the door behind her.

Vick looked up from her computer screen and, at seeing the female detective, said, “Detective O’Hara. Do you have something new on our case?”

She bit her lip and then said, motioning with the file in her hands, “No, not really, but I was hoping to run something by our resident psychic.” Vick arched an eyebrow, but said nothing, which obviously meant that she wanted to hear more, so Juliet continued by saying, “You see, we may not have a lot of evidence, but I thought that Shawn might be able to pick up some, I don’t know…readings from the small bit of evidence that we do have? I mean,” she quickly amended, “I know that we normally don’t let him near evidence after it’s been processed, but I think it could only help…”

Her voice trailed off, as she was still uncertain whether Karen would let her do something rather unorthodox.

The chief looked at her for a long moment, and then said, “It’s not a bad idea. You have my permission.”

“Oh, thank you, Chief!”

Just as she turned to go, however, Vick quickly added, “Just remind him that he may not touch or use the evidence in any way, O’Hara. I don’t want to find fingerprints on there other than the ones that we already found. Am I clear?”

She nodded.

“Crystal.”

She stepped back out into the bullpen just in time to see FBI Agent Travis Kessler walking up to Lassiter’s desk with an authoritative stride. Lassiter stood up and Juliet had to hide an amused smile that wanted to surface at seeing Kessler forced to look up at the taller man. Carlton had at least four inches on him and he seemed to be using it to try and intimidate the young FBI agent, but Kessler brushed it off and stared him down.

“Detective Lassiter--”

“That’s _Head_ Detective, Agent,” he corrected him, and Juliet smirked as she sat down at her desk.

“ _Head_ Detective, then,” Kessler drawled, not put off by the attitude. “We’ve gotten a tip that there’s a special meeting tonight between O’Daly and the men who control his shipments into the local port. We need you there.”

“Fine.”

“And we need you wired.”

At this, Lassiter’s eyebrows shot up and Juliet felt her stomach clench. If they discovered that her partner was rigged, they would kill him, no questions asked. This was risking a lot, and it was a good thing that Shawn wasn’t here, because he would put up _more_ than a bit of a fuss about it. She pretended to not hear, but continued to listen in to the conversation as she scanned absently through the file in front of her.

She could hear that Lassiter’s jaw was clenched from the way he growled out, “We had an agreement, Kessler. I listen in, I report back, and the cameras and earbuds are as far as we go in terms of electronic surveillance. What you’re asking me to do? It’s suicide.”

“Not if O’Daly trusts you as much as you say he does,” the FBI agent rallied. “You’re a part of his inner circle, now, so I expect no problems. We do it tonight. Understood?”

Juliet’s whole body tensed when she heard him reply with a terse, “Yes,” and as soon as they left, she got up from her desk and went to confront him.

“Carlton…”

He turned on her and held up a finger and said, “Don’t.” They stared at each other for a moment, and then, at seeing her look, he added, “O’Hara, this isn’t my choice. This is the only chance we have to catch this bastard, and if I don’t do it, then someone else will. I’d rather it be me.”

She let out a frustrated sigh, hating the fact that he was right, crossing her arms over her chest, but then looked back at him and asked softly, “Are you going to tell Shawn?”

He froze in the middle of reaching for his coffee…and then set it down. “No,” he quietly, but firmly replied. He then leaned on the edge of his desk with his hands, lowered his head, and then looked back up at her, locking his blue eyes onto her brown ones, and said, “And you can’t tell him.”

She swallowed. It was a bad idea. …But it would be worse if he knew. And they both knew it.

“Okay. I won’t tell him.”

He stood back up and grabbed his coffee and his file, but as he turned, he spoke in a voice just above a whisper, and said, “Thank you.”

She nodded, and went back to her desk, looking over the evidence. She soon discovered, however, that she was unable to concentrate. She had promised Lassiter that she wouldn’t tell Shawn…but at the same time, she felt that it was wrong for him to ask her to lie to her best friend. And that he was lying once more to his boyfriend. God, why did he do this? Oh, right. Because he was a guy that was too good and always felt that he had to protect everyone.

Her phone suddenly rang, breaking the stillness of the station, and she picked it up.

“SBPD. Detective O’Hara speaking.”

_“Jules! Hey, I was thinking about you and thought that you and Gus should join me and Carlton tonight. The Feds gave him the night off, so I was thinking that we could go to Willy’s Crab Shack. They let you choose your own lobster and Gus and I are on good terms with the chef, so I thought--”_

She cut him off before he could finish.

“Uh, something came up last minute, Shawn.” _I hate lying to him_. “Carlton and I have been asked by the chief to do some work tonight, so it looks like we won’t be able to make it. Sorry.”

 _“Oh,”_ he replied, and she could hear the hurt in his voice and she hated the fact that she was the one to do that to him. _“No biggie, Jules. I’ll just take Gus then. We can have a boy’s night out. It’s been a while, anyway, and it’s not like I haven’t seen you in forever. I saw you just this morning, right? See ya tomorrow, then…”_

He hung up.

 _Dammit, Carlton_ , she silently cursed. _You better be right about this…_

 

 


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got snowed in from work, so here's another chapter, my wonderful readers and reviewers!! :)

**Chapter 34**

Shawn Spencer looked at his phone as he hung it up. So, in completely unsurprising news, Juliet was a bad liar. She wouldn’t lie by choice, which meant that Lassiter had asked her to lie for him. Goddammit. Why was he doing this? _Again?_ Hadn’t he learned anything from the first time?

Exasperated, he threw his phone across the room and glared at it. Gus walked in.

“Dude! You just got that phone, like, a couple months ago, after the _last_ one you trashed! I am not shelling out a two hundred for a new one.”

“What are you talking about, man? I paid for that phone!”

“Yeah,” scoffed his best friend. “You paid for it, alright. Using _my_ credit card.”

Shawn looked up at him with his patented innocent gaze (which was not so innocent) and replied with, “Gus, what’s mine is yours and what’s yours is mine. We’ve been friends for so long, we might as well accept the fact that if you weren’t so ruler straight, we would be a civil union by now and I would be the one doing all of the shopping, feeling woefully under-appreciated, while you would be constantly coming home late every evening, even skipping nights entirely, after I spent an entire day slaving away at a hot stove…”

Guster rolled his eyes and said, “You don’t even know how to work a microwave without accidentally setting a timer for forty-three minutes instead of four minutes and thirty seconds.”

Shawn stood up from his chair, where he’d been leaned back balancing precariously on the two back legs, and threw a small temper tantrum a five-year-old would have been proud of and firmly stated, “I’ll have you know that I cook for Lassi practically every night! Oh, and,” he added, leaning in and invading Gus’s personal space, “He _likes_ my cooking.”

“He has to. He’s _living_ with you.”

Shawn smirked.

“Since when would that stop him from speaking his mind?”

As much as his long-time friend hated to admit it, Shawn had a point, so he conceded and sat down in the chair that he’d just vacated and replied with, “Okay, you might have a point there. Still. We both know I would be home _every_ night, right?”

Shawn nodded. “Dude, duh! I just said that to get under your skin. Now,” he added, stealing a pen and paper from Gus’s desk, “You and I are going out tonight.”

Gus shook his head, recognizing the look in his friend’s eye. No. He was not doing this all over again. Not after the warehouse incident on the last case. He was sick and tired of constantly putting their lives at risk for money that almost wasn’t even worth it most of the time. Of course, to Shawn, it was the biggest paycheck he’d ever seen. That only went to show the quality of jobs he was used to having.

“No, Shawn. There is no _we_ tonight. There is only me, my couch, a bottle of ’82 Merlot, and my Netflix queue.”

“Dude,” he said, rolling his eyes, “You sound like a chick. I’ve seen your Netflix _list_. Let me guess, Titanic tonight? Besides,” he added, writing something down on the piece of paper in his hand, “Everyone knows the ’88 is the better vintage of the Napa Merlots, man. Learn your wine already…”

Gus huffed and stood up, quickly snapping back, “Okay, first of all, I happen to _like_ the ’82 Merlot--”

“It’s hollow man, and way too lean. The ’88 was the best they ever made! Rich and structured, like my wallet and cheekbones,” Shawn interjected, throwing himself into a pose, but Guster plowed on.

“And second of all, you and I both know that DiCaprio was robbed of his Oscar for that movie!” Shawn nodded his agreement on that statement. “So, don’t go judging me on what I may or may not watch on my nights away from you. I don’t have to answer to you, Shawn, or to anyone else for that matter!”

His friend gave him an exasperated look and rebutted with, “Your grandmother called you last Sunday to make sure that you were taking your vitamins! I remember because I was in the room at the time. Oh, and if my memory doesn’t deceive me, which, I’m fairly sure it _hasn’t_ , you caved like a spineless jellyfish and told her you hadn’t, and then left immediately to go to the drugstore and buy some.”

Gus glared at him.

“All jellyfish are spineless, Shawn, so that phrase is redundant.”

“That doesn’t make me wrong!”

Feeling slightly annoyed at the fact that the fake psychic was one up on him, he stepped back from his desk and moved to where Shawn had thrown his cellphone on the floor. He picked it up and handed it back to him with a small sigh, and then looked his friend square in the eye.

“So…where are we going?”

Shawn’s grin just about split his face as he said, “I knew you’d come around!”, and then he proceeded to give him a long-winded (and not entirely coherent) explanation of why they were headed back to D’Oro for the night, after Gus had been threatened with violence the last time that he’d been there.

“He threatened to shoot me in the kneecaps, Shawn! Now, I don’t know about you, but I _like_ my kneecaps where they are, thank you very much, and I do not think that antagonizing violent drug dealers is a good idea for a fun night out.”

Shawn gave him a look, and said, “Gus, we’re not gonna antagonize him, we’re just gonna talk. He knows me as Lassi’s boyfriend, and so I’m going to use that to see if I can sneak any information from him that he might not otherwise divulge. Also, I am hoping to get a few tips from Cory on how to perfect that divine piña colada recipe of his, because his ratio of pineapple to coconut is _so_ perfect that I am determined to get it right so that I can make them for me and Lassi after we finish off both of our cases.”

“You’re out of your damn mind…”

He nodded.

“Yes. Yes, I am, Gus. Otherwise, this plan of mine would not work.”

* * *

“He’s not even here?”

Shawn shrugged and looked around the bar, ignoring the suggestive smiles and winks sent in his direction every so often, sipping slowly from the piña colada in his hands. He scanned the floor, looking for any of his known associates, certain that O’Daly wouldn’t have left the bar completely without covering any of his bases.

He glanced over towards the couches where O’Daly and his goons usually sat, slightly uncomfortable with how empty it was.

He turned back towards the bartender and said, “Hey, Cory…looking for my boy tonight. You seen him?”

The bartender shrugged as he cleaned a glass and replied, “If you’re talking about your tall drink of cool water with the stunning blue eyes, then no. If you’re talking about Evan, then also no. He and the boss man haven’t been in tonight, only Mark has. He might know where they are. After all,” he added absently, letting out a small amused chuckle, “The man can’t breathe without O’Daly in his life.”

At hearing that, Gus saw Shawn’s face do the thing. That thing when everything clicked together and he knew what piece had been missing from the puzzle.

“You just figured something out, didn’t you?” he muttered to him as his friend turned on his stool back towards him.

He nodded.

“We have to talk to Juliet. Now.”

They left the bar as quickly as they could, and as they drove to the precinct, Shawn quickly explained what he’d figured out.

“The instant I saw his crew, I knew that one of O’Daly’s men was the murderer. They run the club and have their hands in every part of it, and since the cops were only just called in, that meant someone was trying to keep it quiet. Someone with power and influence. Hence, it was one of them.” He paused. “I knew it had to be someone with a personal vendetta because of the style of the murders. Shooting someone, impersonal, but using a knife? Now that’s personal.” He shifted in his seat and faced his friend, ignoring all safety laws. “But I couldn’t figure out what the personal connection was! Now, not only do I now know the connection, I know _who_ is our killer.”

“Who?”

“Mark.”

“Mark the sleazy drug dealer Mark? The one who’s been hitting on Lassiter this whole time?”

“Yep,” he said, popping the p sound. “The guys who were killed? I’d bet you ten bucks that they were both approached by O’Daly to do the job that Lassi’s been doing, and taking over Mark’s old route, because O’Daly was trying to promote him…but Mark doesn’t want to be promoted. Being promoted means only handling the money…and less contact with O’Daly! Thanks to our pal, Cory,” he said, turning back in his seat to face the front, “I know that Mark is trying to kill off the competition. He doesn’t want anyone else to get close to him. He wants the drug boss for himself.”

Gus pulled into the parking lot of the station and as he threw the blue beetle into park, he said, “Uh, Shawn…wouldn’t that mean that Lassiter’s his next target?”

He nodded.

“Yeah. And that’s why we need Juliet.” They jumped out of the car and made their way into the station, and Shawn quickly added under his breath, “I have a hunch that something big is going down tonight, so the FBI is having him do something stupidly dangerous. Jules knows about it, obviously, because why else would she lie to me about the two of them being busy tonight?”

Gus nodded, seeing the logic in his statement, and then followed him over to the young, female detective’s desk.

“Shawn!” she said in surprise, slowly standing. “What are you doing here?”

“Where’s Carlton.”

“Oh, he’s just getting some…files…from the…”

“You really _suck_ at lying, Jules,” he interjected, cutting off her feeble attempt to cover for her partner.

She let out an aggravated sigh and said, “Look, Shawn, he told me not to tell you and I’m just trying to be a good partner. As much as you want to be, you’re not an actual detective. He is. He has a badge and a gun and he knows how to handle himself! He doesn’t want to put you at risk!”

The young man rolled his eyes.

“You don’t get it, do you. I’m not the one at risk, he is! He’s the next target for our murderer.” She looked at him in shock, but as she opened her mouth to speak, Shawn saw the evidence bag on her desk and his eyes caught on a flash of color. “What’s that?”

She absently motioned to it and said, “Oh, uh, evidence from the murders. I was thinking you might be able to get some vibrations off them or something, but if you know who our murderer is then it’s not important…”

“Give it to me.”

She handed it to him, confused. He turned the bag over in his hands, and Gus recognized his look once more. Something else had fallen into place. Another missing piece. He glanced at what was in the evidence bag and saw an empty bottle of JJ&S Dublin Whiskey, bloodied on one end. Hold up…that brand was familiar…

“Blunt force trauma before the throat was slit?” inquired Shawn, and Juliet nodded. He let out an agitated sigh and handed it back to her and said, “Run it for prints.”

She gave him a confused look, and replied, “Shawn, they already ran it for prints and came up with nothing. It was wiped down.”

Instead of pulling his usual psychic routine, he dangerously broke character and said, “Look, our guy’s smart enough to cover his tracks from the outside, but there’s a pretty damn good chance that he held it from the inside as he cleaned off the outside. One finger. It’ll be hard to get, but it’ll match. Run it.”

The junior detective looked at him in surprise and said, “O-Okay, but what’s this about Lassiter being in danger?”

He looked at Gus and then back at her and said, “Jules, I know who the murderer is. It’s a guy named Mark, I never got his last name. He’s been going after anyone that O’Daly has been giving his routes to. Wherever Carlton is tonight, he’s going to be there to make sure that he doesn’t come back. I will ask you one last time. Where is he?”

He was almost pleading at this point, so she caved.

“Kessler has him on a sting. O’Daly asked him to come down to the docks to check a shipment that’s coming in, and so the FBI has him wired.”

At this, Shawn’s eyes widened and both Juliet and Gus could read the fear in his expression.

“He’s wired?” She nodded. “Then he’s as good as dead…we have to leave!” He grabbed Gus by the arm, ignoring Juliet’s shout of protest behind them, telling them to wait for backup, and dragged him towards the door, but Gus didn’t need too much convincing, and was moving as fast as he could, fumbling to pull his keys from his pocket. The instant they were in the car, he said, “Uh, Juliet _is_ coming, right?”

“No time to wait for her, man! We have to go. Now!”

At hearing the stress and fear in his friend’s voice, Gus nodded and started the car, and then took off down the road going faster than he wanted to, but not fast enough for Shawn, who was pressing his foot down on the floor against an invisible gas pedal. He prayed that they’d get there in time.

 

 


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SOOOOO SORRY that this took me so long to update. I just sort of hit...a wall. Like, a massive solid concrete wall of writer's block. I forced myself to keep on at it, though, so it's here! Enjoy it. I am *attempting* to write the next chapter. Wish me luck! I *will* finish this story...even if it kills me. I just love it, so much!

**Chapter 35**

Lassiter shifted on his feet as he stood next to O’Daly. The dock was mostly empty and they were in a corner of it that, conveniently, had no cameras, and so he was feeling more exposed than usual. He glanced around, trying to make it look as casual as possible. Nothing in particular stood out to him. Though he wondered where Evan’s usual bodyguards were.

As he discreetly scanned, however, O’Daly seemed to notice his agitation and reached over and put a firm hand on his shoulder, stilling his movements.

“Worried, Lassiter?”

The detective shrugged and acted as if nothing was the matter and replied, “No’ worried. Jus’ want to get this done and over with.”

The Irish mobster grinned and let out a low chuckle and then squeezed Lassiter’s shoulder and said, “I un’erstan’. ‘S not easy waitin’ for the pawns to do their dirty work, now is it? Jus’ be patient,” he added dropping his hand and motioning towards the truck that was driving into view. “This’ll be over soon enough.”

Carlton nodded, though still inwardly apprehensive, then asked, “Where’re your men?”

“On an errand. Don’ want them here for this one.”

The wire on him seemed to burn and he felt that he was put on display, absolutely naked, even though he wasn’t.

Lassiter knew how to hide that he was wired. He’d done his fair share of undercover operations before, so he knew to not cross his arms across his chest, so that it didn’t interfere with the equipment, as well as how to make sure that he caught the right incriminating words on record, but this situation was different. For the first time ever, he was actually nervous.

It was partially because of the young, Irish mobster, but the rest of it was because of Spencer. He knew that the fake psychic would find out about the sting _some_ how; he was silently praying that he wouldn’t find out until _after_ everything went down. Better to ask for forgiveness, after all. Right?

A sweep of headlights over the darkened dock brought his attention back to the operation at hand. O’Daly smiled, but he was tense, Carlton could tell. This wasn’t an ordinary meeting.

Carlton kept his cool, however, tucking his hands into his pockets, looking unaffected as the car came to a stop a mere three feet in front of them. The driver’s door swung open and a familiar face stepped down out of the jacked-up truck. Mark. Of course, it was him. It just _had_ to be him, didn’t it? The sleazy dealer threw Lassiter a disgustingly sweet smile and said, “Why David…what are you doing here? I’ve missed you over the past few days.” He walked up to him, getting in his personal space, and Lassiter rolled his eyes.

“The feeling’s no’ mutual,” Lassiter drawled, glaring at him, while O’Daly looked on in amusement.

Finally, after an awkward second or two, Evan stepped between them and looked at Mark, one eyebrow arched.

“You have the shipment, right?”

Mark nodded.

“Of course, Evan. Have I ever let you down?”

“No’ so far, bu’ I take e’erything wit a grain o’ salt. So...my shipment.”

Mark threw him a short, stiff smile and then backed off and opened up the back door of the truck, dragging out a large duffle bag, which he then threw at O’Daly’s feet, saying, “Everything the boys agreed on, plus a little bit more. I, uh, gave them some _incentive_ …”

Lassiter heard the implication in the tone and wanted to throw up. The man practically prostituted himself just to get a better deal.

O’Daly started to move forward, but Mark said, “I think the new guy needs to get his hands dirty. I’d prefer it if _he_ inspected the product. I mean, all of us have had a taste, but David, here…well, he seems to be a bit too…innocent.”

Evan’s brow furrowed at this odd request, but he conceded and replied, “Fine. Lassiter, check the product, please.”

Swallowing, he moved forward, trying to figure out what Mark’s game was as he crouched down and looked through the bag, fully expecting methamphetamines, as that was what he’d been dealing for the past few weeks…dear god. There was at least fifty pounds of pure cocaine in there. He picked up one of the bricks. Just from the weight in his hand, the clarity of color, and few other details, he knew that it was from the Mexican cartels. Shit. They were taking the old routes from the Mexicans, which meant that they would be looking for retaliation, and Lassiter had no desire to be caught in the crossfire.

He glanced up at Mark, who merely gave him a smug look and motioned towards the packet in his hand.

“Aren’t you gonna test it?”

Trying to figure out how to get out of this, he shook his head and drawled, “I’m a dealer, no’ a user…an’ I’m no idiot.” He looked over his shoulder at the Irish mobster. “This is from the Mexican cartel. Cinco Reyes, I’m guessing. If you’ve got it, then they’ve got you in their sights. Sorry, but I look af’er my own hide.” He put it back in the bag and stood up, facing off Mark. “I touch this, I’m shootin’ myself in the foot. No, thanks.”

O’Daly seemed amused by this, but Mark looked agitated.

“Oh, really…”

The next few seconds were a blur, and Carlton suddenly found himself on his knees facing O’Daly with a gun to the back of his head. Mark’s gun.

“Evan,” Mark said, almost pleading, “This guy’s a snitch. I bet anything that he is…please. Let me shoot him. Let me show you that I am your most loyal friend, and that I will do _anything_ to keep you safe!” He pressed the gun more firmly to the detective’s head, and Lassiter’s mind raced.

Shit. What had just happened and how had he not seen it coming?

Suddenly, he had a thought…and then that thought snowballed into the rest of his thoughts, and everything finally came together.

Mark was the one killing the men. Dammit. All the men had been on the routes that he’d been dealing drugs at, how the _hell_ had he not put the pieces together until that moment? However, in this case, he was using a gun instead of a knife. More dramatic, he supposed.

He silently cursed in his head a second time, and then mentally scrambled to figure out what he needed to do to get out of there alive…and could only come to one conclusion.

He was going to have to pull a Shawn Spencer.

He was going to have to talk and lie his ass off, long enough to distract them while the FBI pulled in closer.

“Evan,” he said slowly, remembering Spencer’s advice to use first names to take someone off balance, “Do you really think that I would do somethin’ like this to you?” He looked the Irish mobster in the eye, who seemed genuinely confused at the turn of events. “I mean, af’er all…I’ve been bringin’ in the money. I’ve been doin’ you a service…an’ I’ve asked for nothin’ in return…”

He felt Mark’s hand shake slightly, but then, before O’Daly could say anything, he snapped out, “Don’t listen to him, Evan! He came up out of nowhere, and he just _happens_ to be Irish? What are the chances of finding another drug-running Irish guy in the middle of a gay bar in Santa Barbara? Willing to deal for you out of nowhere? I bet anything that he’s wired…”

Panicking, he thought about what Shawn would do. Call their bluff.

“Do it!” he yelled. “Check me for a bloody wire! D’you really think I would do somethin’ so obviously stupid?”

O’Daly hesitated, and then finally spoke, saying, “Mark…what else gives you the idea that David is working against us? He’s done nothin’ but help us,” he added, trying to reason with him, doing Lassiter’s job for him. My god, it was actually working. Maybe Shawn’s technique wasn’t as crazily suicidal as he thought.

Pushing it a little further, Lassiter said, “Tha’s right! I’ve even brought in a few new customers! What special kin’ of idiot would I be to bring in _more_ druggies if I were an un’ercover blue?”

Bad idea. He felt the hard butt of the gun hit him in the side of the head.

“Shut up! You’ll say anything to not get caught!”

Lassiter winced and felt something warm trickle down the side of his face. Blood. Of, course. Once he got out of this, his boyfriend was going to kill him. He licked his lips, and his mind raced, trying to figure out what his next move should be.

 _Well_ , he thought to himself, _what would Spencer do?_

 _Act like an idiot_ , he snorted inside his head…and then thought about it for a second. Act like an idiot. Would it work? Would it be enough to keep them from picking up on the fact that he was trying to get enough on recording to land them both behind bars for life? _I might as well_ , he reasoned. _It’s not like I have much to lose_.

“Mark,” he said slowly, turning his head slightly, “You seem like a reasonable guy, despite the fac’ tha’ you got a gun to my head, so what you say ‘bout makin’ a deal?”

Mark’s hand tightened on the trigger.

“You don’t have anything to deal, _David_ ,” he sneered. “As if that’s your real name.” He pressed his knee into Carlton’s neck, while O’Daly watched their whole exchange with an odd look in his eye. “You waltzed in here like some white knight, just in time to try and step into my shoes and steal Evan away from me…and I’m not gonna let that happen…”

At this, O’Daly’s eyes went wide and he finally spoke up.

“Mark…whoever said you were bein’ takin’ away from me?”

“You did!” he snapped back, his gun hand wavering slightly where he continued to hold it to the detective’s head. “You kept on trying to find people to take my old routes, but I stopped them! I stopped every single _one_ of them, because they don’t deserve to be near you the way I do! I gave you _every_ thing, Evan!” His voice cracked. “You took me in off the streets when I was sixteen, you gave me a family, you _loved_ me…” He took a shuddering breath. “And now, after _all_ this time…you’re trying to _replace_ me? I gave you _everything!”_

His hand was suddenly steady once more and Mark yanked Lassiter to his feet, while the Irish mobster looked at the young man with a softness in his eyes that Carlton hadn’t seen before.

“Mark…o’ course you’re my family,” O’Daly said. “I’m no’ tryin’ to replace you...I was tryin’ to ease the burden, bring you closer to the fold…no’ push you away…”

Lassiter couldn’t see Mark’s face, but he had no doubt that the young man was surprised.

Evan kept on talking.

“I brought you in because I saw _potential_ in you. You’re smart an’ able, an’ you know how to work people to your advantage, which is e’erything that a dealer needs to have, as well as someone who runs the business. I wanted you to work by my side! Bu’ you kept on wantin’ to deal the drugs, so I let you…because I wanted you to be _happy._ ” He paused, and then added, “But if getting’ rid of David here is goin’ to make you happy, then feel free to shoot. We don’ need him, no’ really. But I do need you…”

Shit.

Well, _that_ gloriously backfired on him.

Lassiter’s heart rate rose as he tried to find another way out. The feds weren’t going to get there in time, he knew, because they had established their perimeter too far away. He _had_ to find a way out of this. Cautiously, he glanced around his feet, looking for anything that might help. He wasn’t armed, and he felt naked.

Damn Kessler. The FBI agent had insisted that he not go in armed, that they would have him covered, because being armed would only draw suspicion. But that meant that unless he was able to disarm Mark, he was screwed.

He mentally scrambled, trying to figure out how to get out of his situation. Spencer’s tactics weren’t going to work anymore in this particular situation, so he was going to revert to what he knew. Police tactics. This meant that he needed to find a way to disarm Mark. He took a deep breath and thought about his surroundings. No easy exits; the keys to the car were in Mark’s pocket, so he couldn’t risk trying to get the keys from him.

There was only one thing he could do.

As fast as he could, he turned and grabbed Mark’s wrist, wrenching his gun hand away from him.

It went off.

 

 


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

Shawn jumped out of the car as soon as Gus drove up to the docks, fairly certain he knew where they were going. If he was right (and he pretty much always was), they would be at the one spot on the dock that didn’t have any camera coverage. He headed straight for the security booth…and then stopped.

FBI vehicles. Crap.

He had to get past them. He needed a distraction…as if on cue, Gus showed up behind him, panting.

“Dammit, Shawn, quit moving so fast! There’s only so much running I can do before my quads start rioting, and you are pushing--” He slapped a hand over Gus’s mouth.

“Shut up!” the fake psychic hissed at him. “I need you to go and distract the feebs so I can figure out where Lassi is.”

He began to move, but his friend grabbed his arm and whispered back angrily, “Oh, no you don’t, Shawn! I am not going to be your usual punching bag! I’ve seen the movies. The black guy always dies first!”

“You’re not the black guy, dude, you’re the plucky comic relief! The comic relief never gets killed, so, now go in there and be so freakin’ funny they laugh their asses off, man! Just…do it. Please. If not for Lassi’s life, then for mine. Please…?” He threw him the puppy dog eyes.

Gus gritted his teeth, but caved.

“Fine. But if I die, I am haunting your ass!”

“Deal.”

As Gus moved over towards the federal agent’s cars, Shawn crept across the wet pavement to the small guard house, where he could see several security cameras. As soon as he stepped inside, he grabbed the map of the dock from the wall and then looked at the camera angles, figuring out where O’Daly most likely had Lassiter. It barely took him two seconds to spot it.

There. That’s where they were. The northeast corner; there wasn’t a single camera over there.

Without even thinking about it, he slipped back out, making sure to stay in shadow, and made his way towards the unwatched corner of the dock. As he moved as quickly and as silently as he could, he couldn’t help but hum the Mission: Impossible theme song under his breath. He briefly wondered what had happened to Gus, but then brushed it off. What mattered was Lassi and saving his life, and Shawn couldn’t do that if he was too scared to take a risk to find him.

Just as he turned the corner that brought him into range of the dead zone, he heard low voices.

He stood all the way up from his crouching position, ready to walk into view…

…and then a shot rang out.

His heart stopped.

No.

A second shot.

Carlton.

Panicking, while running tactical scenarios that his father had drilled into him over a grueling weekend at the police academy’s tactical obstacle course, he careened around the corner and got there just in time to see his boyfriend sprawled on the ground, gun in his hand…bleeding. No one else in sight.

Oh god, no. No. No, this couldn’t be happening.

Not paying much attention to what he was doing, he rushed to Carlton’s side, and just as he fell to his knees beside him, Carlton gasped out, “It…was…Mark…”, and Spencer quickly shushed him with, “I know, I know, I figured it out, I just need you to stay still.”

The blood was bright red. Arterial. Dammit. Left subclavian artery, for sure.

Shawn put pressure on it and looked down at those blue eyes that he was intimately familiar with, and then saw Lassi look at something over his shoulder. Without even thinking about it, the psychic reached down and grabbed the gun from Carlton’s limp hand and pivoted in a perfect one-eighty and saw Mark rushing him, a knife in his hand. There was already blood on the blade. He ditched the gun. Mark was already two feet away and Shawn was more likely to get himself shot than the man attacking him.

Mark barreled over him and Spencer rolled, using the druggie’s own body weight against him, to pin him to the ground. He attempted to reach for the knife, but Mark got in a glancing blow, hitting him upside the head with his other hand that he’d pried free from Shawn’s grip.

He attempted to shake it off, but his head swam and he knew instantly that he most likely had a concussion.

Swallowing down the bile in his throat, he resorted to the hand to hand tactics that he’d been taught and thought to himself, _Screw it. Lassi’s gonna find out eventually, I might as well_.

Shawn Spencer was not as inept as he seemed, he only acted that way to keep people from knowing the truth about how his father had raised him. He knew how to fight, goddammit, and it was going to save his life for once. Even as Mark turned him to his back, swinging down the knife with deadly force, Shawn’s hand shot up and hit him with planked fingers squarely in the jugular notch.

Mark spasmed as if struck by a bullet, and fell on top of him. Shawn grabbed the knife from him, and then grunted as he shoved the dead weight off him. Dead being the key word.

Knife in hand, he sat up and then reached over with his free hand and carefully put his fingers to the younger man’s neck.

Nothing.

Shawn expected to be overcome by some sort of overwhelming emotion at having just taken a man’s life…but he only felt relieved. It was over.

However, an unsteady breath to his other side reminded him of the dire situation and he rushed back to Carlton, tossing the knife to the ground and picking the gun back up. It wasn’t Lassiter’s gun, but that didn’t matter. He tucked it into the back of his jeans and then pulled off his over-shirt and pressed it hard to his boyfriend’s chest, trying to stem the bleeding.

God, that blood was red. Too red.

He felt tears unwillingly begin to slide down his cheeks, hot and burning, and he struggled to keep a steady voice as he said, “Hold on, Carlton. Help is on the way.”

He reluctantly removed a hand to grab his phone and call 911, his fingers slipping wetly over the screen, leaving behind streaks of red, his hand shaking the entire time, the tears still falling. An operator picked up the phone, and he quickly said, “This is Shawn Spencer of the SBPD, and I am calling in a 10-00, I repeat, we have an officer down and we need an ambulance down at Shoreline Drive, the northeast corner…and…hurry. Please.”

 He let the phone fall from his hand, hearing a faint voice saying, _“The ambulance is on its’ way, sir. Please, stay on the line…”_ and looked down at Lassiter, still putting pressure against the wound, and seeing that Carlton’s eyes were open, he said, “Hey…I thought I told you not to get shot?”

Lassiter let out a pained breath, a few drops of blood appearing on his lips. Shawn immediately knew it wasn’t the subclavian artery that had been hit, but the axillary artery. He was coughing up blood, which meant that the bullet had not only nicked the artery, but damaged the lungs as well.

Shit.

He then replied in a shuddering voice, “Yeah, well…Mark had other plans…”

“You don’t have to worry about him anymore, Lassi. Right now, all you have to worry about is how I--I’m gonna wear a maid’s outfit while I wait on you hand and foot after you--you get out of the hospital, big guy,” he stuttered, running the back of his hand across his cheeks, wiping the tears away. _Be strong_.

Lassiter let out a choked laugh, and then said, “Don’t think…you’ve…got…the legs…for it…”

A gasping chuckle escaped the fake psychic’s lips.

“Maybe not,” he conceded, and then looked up as he saw flashing lights and heard sirens. “Lassi, the ambulance is here. They’re gonna get you all patched up. My own Humpty Dumpty put back together again.”

He pulled back as soon as the medics arrived and made sure to not get in their way, but said to them, “Pretty sure the bullet nicked the axillary artery, he’s coughing up blood,” and one of them nodded and they proceeded to wrap a much firmer tourniquet over his wound and then got him onto a stretcher. Spencer got into the ambulance with them, grabbing Carlton’s hand as soon as he slid into the cramped space.

He couldn’t lose him.

The instant they arrived at the hospital, Spencer jogged alongside the gurney, keeping his hand around his boyfriend’s for as long as he could. He repeated himself to the ER doctor, saying, “Bullet to the left axillary artery, most likely still in the lung, he’s coughing up blood,” and she nodded. Not two seconds later, he was summarily brushed to the side as they wheeled him into emergency surgery, leaving him standing in the hallway feeling empty.

His hands felt cold.

* * *

Spencer now stood in the waiting room outside of surgery. It had only been a couple of minutes since Carlton had been admitted, but it already felt like an eternity. For the first time in his life, he felt as if he wasn’t entirely in one place. It felt like half of himself was simply…missing.

No. Not missing.

It was less than a hundred feet away in another room, resting in the hands of a stupidly brave man who was lying cut open on an operating table.

God, was this what Carlton had gone through when he’d gotten shot? No wonder he’d been angry. Shawn now understood slightly what his boyfriend had gone through. It was horrible. He felt terrified, worried, pissed off, and sick to his stomach all at the same time.

But he still couldn’t bring himself to sit down. He just stood there. Waiting. He wouldn’t be able to sleep until he knew that Carlton had pulled through… _if_ he pulled through.

Not ten minutes later, Juliet rushed through the doors with Gus in tow, finding Shawn standing as still as a statue, blood on his forehead, staring at the swinging doors leading into emergency.

“Shawn, I heard what happened over the police scanner. We got here as soon as we could…are you alright?”

He turned slightly at hearing her voice and then, in the most emotionless tone she’d ever heard from him he said, “He’s in surgery. The bullet hit his axillary artery and is stuck in his lung.” He pulled out the gun that still rested in the small of his back and handed it to her. He then walked to the wall and sat down in one of the chairs, and, without even looking up, he said, “Nine millimeter. Beretta M9.”

Spencer went silent.

Juliet grabbed a glove from her coat pocket and wrapped it carefully around the gun that he’d handed to her. She _should_ go back to the lab…but at seeing him so emotionally shut down, she decided it could wait, and instead placed the covered gun in her purse for the time being. Yes, she’d probably get yelled at for forgoing proper police protocol, but Carlton had just been shot. She could deal with Vick yelling at her.

Shawn was still silent.

Gus, who had seen this type of reaction from his friend before, said nothing and sat down next to him, while Juliet looked on in confusion at Shawn’s almost cold demeanor.

Finally, she said, “They caught O’Daly. It was Mark who fired the first shot, which hit Carlton. Apparently, Carlton got the gun back from him and fired the second shot. Woody has Mark's body.” She stepped forward and put a hesitant hand on his shoulder, unsure if he was about to snap at any second. “He got enough evidence on his wire to put O’Daly away for good, Shawn.”

He didn’t look at her.

Feeling uncomfortable, Gus finally broke the tension with, “I’m sure he’ll be fine, Shawn. This _is_ Lassiter, after all.”

“Yeah. Fine,” the fake psychic repeated dully.

Juliet sat down on his other side and squeezed her friend’s hand. He didn’t return the gesture. He didn’t look at either of them, either, staring blankly into the empty air in front of him, and she started to worry even more. Carlton had eventually reacted and broken down when Shawn had been in the hospital, and it was healthy. He actually expressed his emotions on a regular basis, but Shawn…

…Suddenly, Juliet had an insight about one of her closest friends.

Sure, he smiled all the time and seemed to be fairly emotional in a good and healthy way…but she realized that maybe he was covering for something.

She glanced at Gus and saw that he seemed completely unsurprised by Shawn’s actions, and her theory was further confirmed. When Shawn actually _cared_ about something, or someone, and when something terrible like _this_ happened to them, he simply shut down. As if he wouldn’t _allow_ himself to feel anything.

And it made a terrifying kind of sense.

If you couldn’t feel anything, then how could anything ever hurt?

She let out a frustrated sigh as he gently pulled his hands away from hers, and that was when she saw the blood on them. She knew it wasn’t his. She looked at him and saw the blood on his head and then carefully asked, “Have the doctors checked on you, Shawn? You’re bleeding…”

She lifted her fingers to his face, and he pulled away from her hand.

“I have a low-grade concussion, nothing worse than falling off my bike. As long as I don’t fall asleep for the next few hours, I’m good. Besides,” he added, acting as if it were nothing. “I don’t think I’m gonna sleep until he’s out.”

Juliet didn’t have to ask who he was talking about.

It was going to be a long night.

 

 


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the readers who are still reviewing me, even after so few updates! My muse has been running away from me far too often, so I've simply had to sit down and pound out a lot of bad sentences and then go back and edit them until they were what they're supposed to be. I enjoyed this chapter, as well, and don't worry. More lightheartedness in the next couple of chapters. :)
> 
> Some translation for the Spanish that I use in this chapter. It's my second language, not too hard for me, but I know I have readers whose second language is English, so here's some help:
> 
> “Shawn, que paso?” = "Shawn, what's up?"  
> “Ya viene,” = "Coming right up,"  
> “Vas a consequir eso?” = "Are you going to get that?"  
> “Alcohol en una parade de camiones? Crees que soy un idiota?” = "Alcohol at a truck stop? Do you think I'm an idiot?"  
> “No suerte, mi amigo.” = "No luck, my friend."  
> “Problemas, Shawn?” = "Problems, Shawn?"  
> “Tu novio esta enfermo?” = "Your boyfriend's sick?"  
> “Lo siento por eso, pero…no crees que deberias estar alli?” = "I'm sorry for that, but...don't you think you should be there?"

**Chapter 37**

Spencer had stayed outside the doors until he couldn’t stand it anymore, and then he’d just left. He felt as if he was waiting for a death sentence sitting outside that operating room, so now he was on his motorcycle driving out of Santa Barbara. Jules had yelled at him as he’d gone, but he’d ignored her and bolted.

It had been a long ass walk back to their apartment just to get his helmet, keys, and motorcycle (and he’d mentally complained the whole time, thinking about turning back around with every step that he took), but the feeling of the metal between his legs made it worth it.

The low rumble ran through his legs up to his back, and from his hands all the way to his shoulders, settling his nerves like a drug that nothing else could satisfy. And he needed it. Boy, did he need it.

He’d killed a man.

It had all been for Carlton, and so he had no regrets, but he knew that eventually they would have to go over what happened at the crime scene, and he would be questioned about it. There was nothing but solid evidence supporting that it had been self-defense…but still. Shawn knew that he’d have to answer for it.

However, that was only one of the many things that were running through his head. He was mad for not figuring it out sooner; he was mad at not getting there soon enough to stop Mark from shooting his boyfriend. Mostly, he was mad at himself.

He was furious, actually, that he _hadn’t_ figured it out.

Goddammit, that’s what he was _supposed_ to _do!_ _He_ was the one who was supposed to throw himself into dangerous positions, so all that Carlton had to do was sweep in and save the day with his badge and gun. When it was the other way around, however, Shawn felt completely helpless. And not only that, but he’d been next to useless all because he had gotten there too late.

Shawn’s phone buzzed in the front pocket of his jacket, insistently. He knew it was either Gus or his father trying to call him, but he didn’t want to deal with it. He ignored it, instead.

He was only vaguely aware of where he was going, as his body and hands were on autopilot as he sped down the familiar highway that had taken him away from so many other problems in his past. He saw a familiar exit sign, however, and the corner of his mouth reluctantly lifted into an almost grin.

 He revved the engine and pulled off the highway towards a mostly unknown truck-stop diner that served the best jalapeño chili cheese fries that he’d ever tasted.

Gravel sprayed out from under the back wheel of his bike as he pulled into the parking lot, the dull green and pink neon light welcoming him. The last letter blinked on and off, as if saying hello, and he couldn’t help but smile to himself as he took off his helmet and secured it to the handlebars.

The instant he walked through the door, the cook from behind the counter yelled at him, “Shawn, que paso?”

“Not much, Enrique,” he answered in English as he sat down on one of the red, plastic stools. “I’ll have my usual.”

“Ya viene,” the black-haired cook replied, pulling out the makings of cheese fries.

Spencer came to the truck-stop about once every couple of weeks. He hadn’t been in a long time, however. Carlton didn’t know about it, but the fake psychic hoped that he could show it to him sometime soon. Shit. Carlton. The one person that he wasn’t trying to think about and it all came full circle back to him. He was lying on an operating table and, instead of being at the hospital like a good boyfriend, he had run away and was sitting on a split, fake leather diner stool while trying not to think about where the stickiness on the bottom of his shoes was coming from.

His phone buzzed again.

“Vas a consequir eso?” Enrique asked, and Shawn shook his head.

“Nope. I’m gonna let it ring.”

The younger man shook his head and continued to cook. Enrique was from Mexico and understood English just fine, but couldn’t really speak it. Shawn had grown up around a lot of friends who spoke Spanish, so he could understand it just fine, he just couldn’t speak it. Hence, they could talk to each other without ever speaking the same language. It was nice. He briefly wondered if Lassiter knew any Spanish…shit. Not again. No matter how he tried, his mind went to him.

“Hey, Enrique, you got any liquor around here?”

“Alcohol en una parade de camiones? Crees que soy un idiota?”

Shawn smirked at that.

“No, not an idiot. I just figured you were the kind of guy with a little something extra behind the counter.”

“No suerte, mi amigo.”

The psychic shrugged. Oh, well. It had been worth a shot. He’d hoped to possibly drown his sorrows. A couple of regulars strolled in and sat down behind him at a table, both of them wearing trucking company hats. Shawn immediately noticed that one of them was married from the faint lighter marking on their left ring finger. He was stepping out on his wife, for sure. Kept it off while on the road to keep the other women from finding out.

He glanced at the other man, and was taken off guard by the wedding band he sported and then was even more startled when he muttered, “Sorry ‘bout your ring, Dan. I’ll get it fixed soon.”

The man named Dan nodded and then said, “Yeah, jus’ wan’ it back on, Reid.”

They touched hands across the table and shared a soft smile, and Shawn pulled his eyes away. Of course, he’d deduced wrong. His mind was a mess. The clinking of a plate being placed in front of him broke him from his internal depression, and he grabbed the fork and dug right into it.

Yes, he ate the fries with a fork. It was the only way to make sure that the delicious cheesiness didn’t end up all over his shirt and pants. As he ate, his mind wandered once more to his boyfriend.

His phone buzzed again.

He glared at it and took another bite, but then looked at the name of who was calling. It wasn’t Gus. It wasn’t Henry. It was Jules. He could ignore Gus easily enough, he’d been doing it for years, and ignoring his dad was old habit by this point…but ignoring Juliet? Yeah, that was a little bit harder for him, though he’d never admit it out loud. She was his second best-friend and she would take him ignoring her _very_ personally, unlike Gus or his father, who were used to it.

Swallowing his mouthful, he reluctantly put down his fork and picked up his phone.

“Hey, Jules,” he started, but she cut him off with, _“Where the hell are you Shawn? Gus has been trying to reach you for the last hour! Your dad, too! If you went out on your bike in the state that you’re in, so help me, I just might shoot you!”_

Well, that was a first. Lassi was usually the only one to threaten him in such a manner.

He let out a frustrated sigh and leaned forward on the counter and said softly into the phone, “Jules…I needed to get out. I just…I’m not like you guys. I can’t just sit there doing nothing…” _“Oh, but you can sit somewhere else doing nothing, instead?”_ She had a point. Spencer quickly countered with, “It’s not the same thing, Jules! When I’m sitting in the hospital, I can’t think of anything besides the fact that I’m sitting there because Lassi got shot. And I…I just can’t _deal_ with that!”

She was quiet.

After a second she said, _“Okay, I get that, but Shawn…he_ needs _you.”_

At that, he drew in a sharp breath. He didn’t like being emotionally manipulated. His father and mother, both, had been doing it to him for years. Gus had tried once or twice, but had soon learned that trying to manipulate Shawn Spencer was a Bad Idea, capital B, capital I. To have _Jules_ try and do it to him, especially during this kind of traumatic event, meant that he was more than slightly pissed off. He tightened his jaw and kept his voice low so as not to draw attention to himself in the diner.

“Jules…Juliet,” he corrected, trying to convey just how upset he was. “Right now, he’s on the operating table. I can’t _do_ anything. Until he is out, I will do what I have to in order to stay sane. If that means not being there while his chest is being cut open, then you, Gus, and Henry are just gonna have to deal with it.”

He hung up.

Yes, it was harsh, but she would understand. He just couldn’t deal with the emotional weight that came with having a real, grown-up relationship, along with the terrifying fact that it was very possible that it might not exist in a few hours all because of one little measly bullet.

And one jab of his hand.

God, that still barely registered, but he was going to have to deal with it sooner or later. He had killed Mark. He still didn’t know the man’s last name (not that he cared, or anything), but he knew that Vick and the SBPD weren’t going to let it go so easy. Yes, it was self-defense, but he’d still _killed_ someone.

Shawn stabbed at his food a few times, taking a couple of bites, his appetite practically gone. The short, heated conversation he’d had with Juliet (it was _not_ a fight), left him feeling sick to his stomach, and he wasn’t sure how long he could take it. He glanced in the reflection of the napkin holder and saw Dan and Reid’s hands still intertwined and he bit back the sarcastic and biting comment that he wanted to fling out in self defensive posturing. It wasn’t fair that they had each other while he waited to know if his own boyfriend was even going to be alive in the next two hours.

After about ten quiet minutes, Enrique came over to the counter, a towel tossed over his shoulder in a cliched manner. He glanced at the fake psychic’s barely touched food.

“Problemas, Shawn?”

He shrugged.

“My boyfriend’s in the hospital.”

“Tu novio esta enfermo?”

“No, not sick. He…he was shot. He’s a cop,” he quickly explained, and Enrique’s brow rose in understanding, and he replied with, “Lo siento por eso, pero…no crees que deberias estar alli?”

Spencer let out another sigh and pushed his food around on his plate with his fork and then answered, “No, Enrique. I shouldn’t be there. Not now. I’m too…unstable.” At this, the cook nodded, as if understanding, and Shawn added, “I did something to save his life, but…I don’t know if he’ll look at me the same way.”

Out of nowhere, Enrique threw down the towel and leaned forward onto his hands on the counter and said in perfect, barely accented English, “You are an absolute ass, Shawn Spencer. Get back to that hospital and be uncomfortable. Everybody goes through it, you don’t get to get out of it.”

And with that, he pulled the barely eaten plate of jalapeño chili cheese fries away from him, and glared at him over his shoulder as he took them back to the kitchen.

Well…shit.

“Gee, you wanna sugar coat it some more, Enrique?” he shot back, and only heard laughter in reply. Shawn rolled his eyes, slapped a ten on the counter, and then turned to leave. Just as he was about to leave, one hand on the door, he yelled back to the cook, “By the way man, totally _not_ cool pretending to not be able to speak English! I had to pull out some of my old Spanish books because of you!”

More laughter.

Feeling like a total ass, just as Enrique had implied, he went back to his bike and reluctantly slid a leg over it, pulling his helmet back on. Just before he started the engine, he shot Juliet and Gus a group text.

 _Coming home. You were right,_ he sent.

Gus sent back a thumbs up and Jules sent him a smiley face.

Yeah…time to be a grown up. No more running away.

 

 


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

Henry glanced down at his watch for the third time in ten minutes. Gus had told him that Shawn was on his way back. He knew it wasn’t easy for his son to do this. He was a little bit too much like his mother in the fact that he tended to run when things were too emotionally difficult for him, living in a constant state of appearing to be a man stuck in a child’s body. But he was coming back.

Hopefully.

Maybe.

Eh, the chances were at _least_ more than ten percent.

When it came to this sort of thing, it was really hit or miss because it all depended on Shawn’s mood at the time, and Henry was just silently praying that this time it was going to be a hit, and not a miss.

Gus had shown him the text, and even though it looked like things were going in the right direction, Henry still held his breath. This was, after all, _Shawn_ they were talking about.

His phone pinged.

He looked down and saw a text notification. Henry pressed the screen and saw it was from Shawn. _On my way, pops. C u soon._ Goddamn. He must really love the man, after all. He’d never known anyone able to have this kind of pull on his son.

Henry stood outside the hospital, hoping to catch him before he went in, knowing that a few things needed to be cleared up before he set foot into the building.

Correction. _If_ he went in. Another if. He hated the word, but it was the only one that could be applied to the current situation. It was all one big _if._

Just as he was thinking that his son wasn’t going to show up, fully ready to walk back inside and wait with the others, Shawn breezed into the circle near the front entrance of the hospital and came right up to the curb where the ex-cop was sitting on one of the benches. The younger Spencer came to a stop and removed his helmet, looking confused.

“Dad?”

“Hey, Shawn.” He stood up and approached him, shoving his hands into his pockets as he asked, “What took you so long?”

“Traffic gnomes,” he snapped back with a straight face.

Henry snorted.

“Where’d you go?”

“Off the highway.”

“Rico’s Truckstop?”

“Of course.”

“Chili-cheese fries?”

“Yeah.”

There was a long pause as they sized each other up, knowing that their casual banter was about to end. They were standing outside of a hospital, after all, and not for any reasons that were pleasant. Henry shifted slightly on his feet, unsure of what to do with his hands, so he resolutely shoved them into his pockets.

Shawn finally asked, “What are you doing here, dad?”

“Gus called. Said you might need an extra shove through those doors.” Henry paused, and then added, “Are you?”

Shawn couldn’t quite meet his eye, and the older Spencer tried to keep from rolling his eyes. Yes, of course he was going to need a shove through those doors. Heck, with the way he was acting, he might need a jaws-of-hell just to pry him from his bike. Shawn kept on glancing down at it, as if debating whether or not he should just get back on it and peel out of there as quickly as possible, and Henry knew that he had to convince him otherwise.

Letting out a sigh, he gave his son a once over and said, “It took a lot of guts coming back here. I know it couldn’t have been easy for you.” Shawn shrugged, but Henry knew better. “You, uh…gonna go and wait for him?”

At that, Shawn shrugged, putting his helmet on the handlebars, and his father tried not to think of how much he hated the machine that his son was sitting on. That _thing_ was the reason why he’d ended up in the hospital the first time, and he didn’t like the fact that Shawn had taken such a risk driving it while emotionally compromised.

He avoided the question and instead asked, “Does Vick need a statement from me about…you know…”

Henry didn’t need him to finish the question. He knew what his son was talking about. He’d killed a man. Mind you, he’d done it in self-defense, but still. That was something that he’d hoped that Shawn would never have to deal with. Even though Spencer was upset that Shawn had never gone to the academy, he had felt a small sense of relief in believing that at least his son would never have to face that kind of decision…boy, had he been wrong.

Henry shook his head.

“No. Not yet, anyway,” he amended. He paused and then repeated his question from before. “You gonna go and wait for him?”

Shawn was silent. And it wasn’t comfortable in the _least_. He fidgeted; tapped the toe of his boot against the curb and rubbed his fingers over the leather of the seat, looking up, down, to either side, completely avoiding any sort of eye contact, and Spencer knew that his son was just trying to sort everything out in his head, but it most likely wasn’t making any sense.

After a long moment, Shawn finally replied, “Yeah, I guess. I just…I don’t get it, dad.”

Dad. That was the third time he’d called him that in the space of two minutes.

“Don’t get what?”

He let out a frustrated sigh, ran a hand through his hair and scooted further back on the edge of his bike and explained.

“I don’t get… _this._ ” He made a random gesture with his hands. “How people deal with all of this emotional trail mix! I mean, is it worth all of the walnuts, peanuts, almonds, and raisins, just for a few measly pieces of chocolate?”

Henry’s eyebrow lifted at the metaphor, but he understood what Shawn was trying to say. Was all of the emotional pain and frustration of not knowing, worth the small amount of happiness that he’d found with Carlton? Well, shit. He honestly didn’t have an answer for that. So, he said so.

“That’s not up to me, Shawn. That’s up to you.”

His son avoided looking him in the eye, and Spencer senior let out his own frustrated sigh and snapped, “Look, kid, it’s _your_ relationship, not mine. I don’t have any say in what goes on between you two. All I know…and just you know, this is _very_ hard for me to admit,” he quickly added, “All I know is that you two… _some_ how…make each other better. More honest. And that’s something that doesn’t happen very often, in my experience. Especially considering your…circumstances. So…don’t fuck it up.”

At that, Shawn let out a small incredulous laugh.

“Did you just tell me to not fuck it up?”

“Yeah. I did.”

Shawn shook his head and handed his dad the keys to his bike and just as he did, Henry grabbed his wrist as said, “By the way, Shawn. _Never_ text me while you’re driving that deathtrap, again. You hear me? I don’t want to get another call one day saying that you busted your head on the pavement because you thought it was a good idea to multi-task while operating a motorcycle.”

“I was at a stoplight, pops.”

He motioned towards the hospital doors.

“I think I’ll go on up. I mean, after all…apparently, he makes me better,” he added, smirking, just before he turned and disappeared through the front doors. Henry stared after him, silently rolling his eyes and slightly regretting what he’d just said. His son didn’t need a larger ego. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the keys, still feeling residual heat from Shawn’s hands.

Henry stood there a little too long, and then thought back to their brief conversation. His son had been surprisingly…mature. And that wasn’t a word that he used lightly, especially not when he was talking about Shawn. There was something different in his eyes, in the way he held himself.

Shawn wasn’t slouching anymore. He wasn’t walking like a cocky teenager (which just looked ridiculous on a man his age) and he wasn’t acting as if the whole world revolved around him. He wasn’t pulling faces, he wasn’t trying to weasel out of responsibility…and he was actually trying to keep and hold onto a relationship. With Carlton Lassiter. Spencer shook his head at that last one, still not entirely sure why his son had chosen the Head Detective, of all people, to pursue a relationship with.

However, from what he understood, the feelings were most definitely mutual.

That was the other part that he couldn’t entirely fathom. How the hell one of the smarter men that he knew (not the smartest, but smart _er_ ), had fallen for his idiot of a son, he did not know. It baffled him, to be quite honest about it.

Carlton Lassiter was a man who was focused on his career. Shawn was focused on anything _but_ a career. Carlton liked to fish. Shawn _hated_ fishing. Carlton could be cold and unfeeling, and Shawn was almost overflowing with compassion for even inanimate objects…but then again, Carlton was loyal to a fault. And so was Shawn, to _almos_ t a fault. They were both stubborn, pig-headed, hell bent on proving that they were right…and who was Henry kidding, the two of them were perfect for each other. They were both good detectives and, though he hated to admit it, they complemented each other in some odd, mystifying way.

As Henry stood next to the bike, wondering what the heck he was supposed to do with it, since he sure as _hell_ wasn’t driving the thing, he realized that he’d never talked to Carlton about how he felt towards his son. It felt as if it would be an awkward conversation.

But Henry knew that once Carlton was awake and better, he was going to have to talk to him. Great. Now _there_ was a conversation that he was looking forward to having.

He glanced back at the doors and wondered whether or not Shawn had made it up to the waiting room, or if he was standing just outside the elevator, as indecisive as always.

Making a decision, Henry snagged the helmet off the bike, locked the ignition and steering, and stepped back through the automatic doors…and then rolled his eyes at the sight in front of him. Shawn was standing outside the elevator, frozen to the spot, his finger twitching as if he couldn’t make up his mind whether to push the button. He walked forward, grabbed his son’s arm, and pressed the up arrow.

“C’mon, Shawn. You can do this, kid.”

“Nope. Can’t.”

He attempted to go boneless, causing several odd stares in their direction from the staff and a doctor or two as they walked by, but the older Spencer quickly wrapped his other arm around Shawn’s shoulders and hissed out, “You go boneless on me, Shawn, so help me, I will strap you to a gurney and drag you up there anyway, so don’t even _try_ it!”

He immediately stopped squirming, steadying his legs beneath him, and Henry grinned. The elevator doors pinged open and he shoved him through.

“You. Upstairs. Now.”

Just as the doors started to close, Shawn yelled back at him and gesticulated wildly, causing the kid in the wheelchair and his mother to look at him as if he were crazy.

“You! Still! Annoying!”

Henry chuckled.

Shawn would be fine.

And, quite possibly, so would Lassiter. Feeling more confident than he had before, Mr. Spencer headed for the cafeteria for some coffee. If he got there early enough, it wouldn’t be as bad as it usually was, and he could always salvage it with some dried-up sugar packets and lukewarm creamer.

As soon as he’d gotten his cup of coffee, however, he looked down at it and let out a sigh. Lassiter better pull through, dammit, or all of this was for nothing. And, as much as it was still weird to him, he didn’t think he could go through the pain of seeing his son suffer from a broken heart.

He _better_ pull through.

 

 


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, this was *not* where I was planning on taking the story...the characters committed mutiny, I tell you! I mean, there I was, just typing along, planning on writing a happy go lucky chapter...when, out of NOWHERE, they came up swinging with emotions and dialogue and all this stuff I didn't plan...so blame Spencer and Lassiter for all of this, not me!

**Chapter 39**

Spencer sat next to Carlton’s bed, trying to shove his thoughts into some sort of order as they kicked around his brain going at several thousand miles an hour, none of them leaving any forwarding addresses as they slipped out of mental metal filing cabinets.

He took a deep breath and slowly let it out, along with the stress headache that he felt building up behind his eyes…

Carlton was going to be fine.

He’d been sitting there for five hours, and it still hadn’t sunk in entirely. The surgeon had come in at the beginning and told him and Juliet that there had been no issues; they’d pulled out the bullet, fixed the artery, and he would recover in a few days. Shawn didn’t quite believe them, however. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Just…waiting. It had to drop at some point, right?

Juliet, on the other hand, was smiling as she walked into the hospital room, handing him a cup of coffee.

“Hey, has he woken up?” she gently inquired, and Shawn shook his head.

“Not yet.”

He took a sip of the coffee, wincing at the horribly bitter taste, but swallowing it down anyway. He looked back at Carlton, who was still knocked out from the drugs, and licked his lips. When he woke up…what were his first words going to be? _“You interfered with an investigation, Spencer.”_ Probably. Yeah. Most likely. He mentally snorted at the thought, and hoped that he was right.

The deputy detective moved behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder, and she said, “Well, he pulled through, Shawn. He’s gonna be fine.”

He resisted the urge to shrug her hand off his shoulder, as he wasn’t feeling particularly touchy feely, and instead nodded and replied, “Yeah, I know that. Fine. Completely fine, with his grumpiness and ego perfectly intact, no less than it was before.”

She pulled her hand away and gave him a look at his words, one eyebrow raised.

“Shawn…are you okay? I mean, he’s going to be _fine_ ,” she emphasized, as if trying to get a reaction out of him. “They patched him up and it probably won’t even scar.” He shrugged, and she pressed. “Shawn…what’s going on? Your _boyfriend_ was shot, and he’s pulled through it better than anyone expected, and you’re acting as if he’s on his deathbed! What…why are you acting like this?”

He let out a frustrated sound and it took more effort than he cared to admit to _not_ crush the paper coffee cup between his hands.

“I’m just…” He paused and stood up, looking out the window. “It’s just too easy, Jules!” Shawn quietly exploded, mindful of the man sleeping in the bed. “I mean, there was all that blood…everywhere…and, and…there was blood and…all that…red…everywhere…and he was lying there, and coughing up blood…and…and there was blood…” He paused and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, as if trying to hold something in, his eyes glistening.

Her eyes went wide as she suddenly realized what she was seeing.

“Shawn, god, I’m _so_ sorry…” Juliet stepped toward him with one hand out. “I didn’t think…I…I should have realized how hard this was for you.”

“What? Whaddaya mean?” he asked, wiping his hand over his face, trying to erase any sign of unshed tears.

She put down her coffee on the window ledge and said, “You’ve never had someone you care about nearly die right in front of you, have you?”

At that, he immediately protested.

“Okay, are we just conveniently forgetting Yin attacking my mother, or what? And how about all the times Gus and I have been kidnapped, or shot at, or--”

She cut him off.

“Shawn, this is different, and you know it, so just stop.” Juliet lowered her voice slightly and looked back at Carlton, and then took a step closer to Shawn said in a softer tone, “You thought you were going to watch him die, didn’t you?” He didn’t nod, but she saw his eyes shift back over to where the head detective was lying still on the hospital bed, and she knew that that was a yes. “When you choose to love someone the way that you…love Carlton…” God, that was weird to say. “…It’s different.”

He looked back up at her, any trace of the normal light in his eyes diminished. Juliet _hated_ being the person to do that to him, but it had to be said. She’d never seen him so sober and serious before. He was unnaturally still, his fingers clenched tight around the edge of the windowsill, his mouth drawn tight, the worry lines around his eyes more pronounced.

“Shawn?” she gently pressed…and he finally moved, shaking his head as he said, “I’m still waiting for the bad news, Jules…”

He paused, and she let him, hoping that by staying silent he would open up to her. He did.

“I mean, when I was taken by Richards, _that_ , for me and Lassi, was the other shoe. I mean, we already thought I wasn’t gonna be around much longer, and then me being kidnapped was just the hidden boss fight at the end of Donkey Kong…” She opened her mouth to disagree with him, but was confused by his words. What did he mean he thought he was going to be around much longer? She thought about asking, but bit her lip, instead, and let him keep going.

“So, when this case came up and I found out he’d lied to me just to protect me, I was _beyond_ pissed, but mainly because I was scared for _him_! I mean, I’ve never actually… _worried_ over anyone in my life! My dad’s a cop, but knows how to handle himself, Mom’s always been one step ahead of the bad guys, and Gus has always been smarter than me when it comes to detecting danger, so I’ve never really worried about anyone not coming back to me, but with Carlton…it’s different…”

As the psychic detective spoke, he almost didn’t even seem to realize that Juliet was there, as he stared at Carlton the entire time.

“I mean,” he added, turning to face the bed more fully, “I _know_ that he’s a cop and can take care of himself, but on every case that he’s taken since we’ve gotten together, my stomach does this horrible ‘I-just-ate-a-dozen-jelly-donuts-and-I’m-about-to-throw-up’ kind of thing, and I can’t _stand_ it! And he just got shot all because I didn’t figure it out in time, and I just wanna…throw myself into a ball pit of overly-frosted fruitcake and die!”

Her eyebrow went up at that.

“Overly-frosted fruitcake?”

“It’s disgusting, Jules, trust me on this. No smell in the world is worse.”

She simply nodded, and he finished off his small speech with, “I just feel like…the fact that he pulled through so easy, that it’s gonna, I dunno, come back and bite me in the ass! Where’s the other shoe, Jules?” he asked, gesticulating wildly. “Where’s the size twelve doc martens with rainbow shoelaces coming down at me from the sky? It’s just…too easy…”

She put a hand on his shoulder and gently squeezed it and replied softly with, “You’re thinking about it too much, Shawn. I mean, after all…good things do happen.”

As if hearing her words, Lassiter’s hand twitched where it lay on top of the white blanket and his eyes fluttered open, and Shawn saw it and rushed to his side, sliding his hand right into his boyfriend’s, saying, “Hey, Humpty Dumpty. Looks like they put you back together again. I mean, the nose is a bit low and the ears need to be resized, but, hey, what can you do…”

Immediately, Lassiter let out a low grunt of annoyance and said in a raspy voice, “Spencer, so help me, I may be drugged, but I can still hurt you.”

Shawn laughed.

“Point taken, Lassi.”

Juliet watched for a moment longer, her eyes drifting down to where their hands were entwined on the bed, and she couldn’t help but smile at seeing her partner squeeze the younger man’s fingers in his own, even as he continued to growl at him. He loved him, alright. They loved each other. Deciding to give them a moment, she quietly slipped past them towards the door, but just as she had her hand on the handle, she heard Lassiter say behind her…

“O’Hara…”

She turned.

“Yeah, partner?”

He caught her eye, morphine-blurred blue meeting green. He opened his mouth as if he was about to say something profound, but instead swallowed and said in a voice less hoarse than before, “You better get those reports done before I get back to work.”

She nodded.

“Consider it done.”

She left, unknowingly leaving behind her two very emotionally compromised men. As soon as the door swung shut, Spencer gripped his boyfriend’s hand more tightly between both of his and sat down in the chair next to the bed, wondering how long he had before the older man fell back asleep. One could never be sure when it came to morphine. He remembered it well.

Unsure of what to say, he licked his lips and began to say anything that came into his head, desperate to fill the void between them.

“So, I went to Rico’s Truck Stop Diner and ordered some chili cheese fries. They’re the best in the state of California, bar none, and I’ve told Enrique that I’ll bring you by sometime soon so you can try them. Oh, Gus and I were wondering if we could borrow your old Guns & Ammo magazines for some decoupage we were planning this weekend. We’re making new bird-feeders for the old folk’s home. We put them out there for the squirrels, mainly; they’re attracted to the bright colors. Ironic, if you think about it really; using _your_ gun magazines to make homes for squirrels, but then again--”

“Spencer. Shut up.”

He merely raised an eyebrow, but he listened and stopped talking, his hands still firmly around Lassi’s right one. He wasn’t letting go. Not anymore, goddammit.

The head detective’s own eyebrow shot up at being so easily obeyed and he looked at where Spencer’s fingers were wrapped a bit too tightly around his own. Not that he was complaining, mind you, but he knew that something needed to be said. The younger man was obviously panicking.

He took a deep breath…and then fell into a horrible hacking fit, and Shawn grabbed a cup of water sitting next to the bed and handed it to him. Lassiter took a sip and his brow furrowed.

“How long has this been sitting there?”

“Dunno. It was there when I came in.”

It took most of his effort to not cough the tepid water back up, but he managed, and put the cup to the side. He took another breath, not as deep as the last one, and looked his lover in the eye, trying to put into words what he wanted to say. After a long, awkward filled moment, he spoke.

“Spencer…Shawn,” he gently corrected. “Thank you.”

“For what?” the fake psychic spat out. “Getting you shot? Because, hey, anytime!”

He glared at him.

“No, and you know that wasn’t your fault, Shawn.”

“Wasn’t my fault?” he spat back, pulling his hands away from his, his attitude shifting drastically from what it was only moments before. “I should have seen it from the very first night! Mark was _right_ there, but I was an idiot amateur too caught up in playing my usual games to see what was staring me right in the face! It was there the whole time, Lassi, and I _should_ have _seen it…_ but I didn’t.”

He stood back up and turned his back to him, facing the window.

“I didn’t see it because…I was too caught up in _you_ , Carlton…”

He paused, and let that loaded statement linger in the air between them.

“My dad wasn’t entirely wrong, you know,” Shawn added in a non-sequiturial way. “He told me not to get involved with you. I mean,” he quickly explained, “ _He_ thought it was because I wouldn’t stick around, that I have commitment issues…but it’s more than that…”

He turned his head and looked Lassiter dead in the eye.

“I mean, I can see it now. Clear as day. Relationships cloud my judgment.” He let out a humorless laugh and said in a voice barely above a whisper, “No wonder he didn’t try to keep mom around.”

And with that, Carlton sat up as much as he could and was about to deliver a stinging retort in defense, but the door swung open to the room and his doctor walked in, effectively ending their one-sided conversation, which was far from being finished.

As soon as the doctor checked on his vitals, Spencer left, leaving a very confused head detective behind him.

 

 


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40**

It was the fourth day and Lassiter was being discharged from the hospital. Juliet had come by to see him, as well as Vick, Gus, and even Henry…but not Spencer. Even though it should have been Spencer wheeling him out to Gus’s blueberry, attempting to pop wheelies on the back of his entirely-not-necessary wheelchair, it was Juliet.

“So…Shawn couldn’t pick you up?” his partner tentatively asked, and he gave her a noncommittal shrug.

“He was busy.”

He watched her bite her lip as she pushed him in the direction of her car. The instant they got to the curb, he stood and opened the door and slid into the passenger’s side, wincing as his left shoulder hit the cushioned seat. He pulled the seatbelt on and waited impatiently for her to come around.

The instant she got into the car, he put on the radio. He knew Juliet wanted to talk about Shawn. He didn’t.

She said nothing the entire drive to his apartment, but when they walked inside, he froze.

Shawn’s things were gone.

His partner, of course, didn’t notice a thing, as she hadn’t seen the apartment, really, while he and Shawn were living together. Now past tense. And Lassiter wondered why…but at the same time, he wondered why he’d ever expected anything different. Shawn wasn’t dying, after all, and Carlton knew his secret now, and Shawn had never stayed in any relationship longer than a few weeks since _he’d_ ever known him…so why should he be the one exception to the rule? Exactly. He wasn’t.

Spencer was just…moving on. The way that he was used to.

And Carlton was just going to have to live with that.

Juliet walked into the kitchen ahead of him and her voice carried back into the hall as she said, “I like the backsplash, Carlton! It’s nice.”

Backsplash? What was she…oh, hell no. Feeling a surge of familiar anger and agitation low in his gut, he stalked into the kitchen and saw that his gray tile had been painted over and was now white, dotted with a yellow and green pineapple print every third tile. Apparently, Shawn had decided to leave one last lingering mark before he went. Figured.

Hi anger suddenly disappeared in the sensation of a deep pain in his stomach, one that he didn’t want to look too closely at, and he turned back down the hall to his bedroom.

“Thanks for the help, O’Hara,” he said as she followed after him, lugging his large duffle bag.

“No problem,” she gasped out, leaving the bag just inside the door to his bedroom. “By the way,” she said, still catching her breath. “I thought Shawn lived here with you. Where’s his stuff? I mean, I saw his old place at the laundromat, and it was an absolute wreck…” She looked around the bedroom with an entirely too keen eye, and Carlton cleared his throat and said, “I cleaned the apartment the evening before I got shot. He must have been staying with Guster this week.”

His partner nodded, accepting his explanation, and then was ushered out by Lassiter to the front door, where he practically pushed her out.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She stopped him with a hand on his uninjured shoulder and a raised eyebrow.

“Tomorrow? Uh uh. The chief said that you’re on mandatory paid leave for the next week. If I see you in there, I will give you a matching scar on your other shoulder,” she said, her tone firm and resolute.

His own eyebrow shot up.

“Did you just threaten to shoot me, O’Hara?”

She smirked.

“Why, yes, I did, Detective Lassiter.”

And with that, she turned and left, leaving him feeling lonelier than he honestly cared to admit to. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, closing his eyes for a moment. It was quiet in his apartment. Too quiet. Normally, he cherished silence, but ever since Shawn had come into his life, silence no longer equated happiness. Instead, the crash of his pots and pans being rearranged and the sound of off-key singing coming from the shower had become the new soundtrack of his life.

Realizing he was becoming maudlin, he shook his head and said to himself, “Snap out of it, Carlton,” and moved to head to the kitchen…and then remembered what Spencer had left behind. Nope. Kitchen was a no go until he could find someone to repaint, because he sure as hell wasn’t doing it.

Instead, he moved to the living room, where he collapsed on the couch and turned on the tv, ignoring the throbbing that was becoming more pronounced in his left shoulder.

The volume blasted as soon as he turned it on, and it seemed to be stuck on some children’s cartoon channel, as bright colors flashed across the screen and an animated coyote ran through a badly painted desert, chasing what looked to be a rooster. Ugh.

He didn’t even try to change the channel.

He turned it off.

He couldn’t escape him.

The question remained, however…why had Shawn left? The fake psychic had blown up at him in the hospital room, and then walked out without saying another word, not letting the head detective say a single thing in response, and it made Lassiter more depressed than angry, and he didn’t know _why_.

He let out a frustrated sigh and looked at the clock. It was only eleven fifteen. A week off work? He wasn’t going to make it.

* * *

Shawn lay on Gus’s couch, leafing through one of his pharmaceutical catalogs, his mind briefly memorizing things that might be useful to know for future cases. If he ever worked again, that was. At that upsetting thought, he threw the magazine to the floor and laid his hands on his chest and looked up at the ceiling.

He closed his eyes.

And saw blue eyes staring back at him.

His eyes shot back open and he threw himself off the couch, muttering to himself, “Nope. Not falling for it,” and headed for the kitchen to raid whatever food Gus had. He opened the refrigerator door and saw nothing but disappointment. Yogurt, celery, salad, tomatoes, and… “What’s kwi-no-ah?”

“That’s quinoa, Shawn, and what the hell are you doing in my apartment at one in the afternoon?!”

Shawn continued to peruse its’ contents and said, “I’m raiding your fridge, duh. What else does it look like?”

“Uh, it looks like you’re being a dick and avoiding Lassiter for the fifth day in a row,” he said, walking past him and closing the refrigerator door. “Did you even visit him when he was in the hospital?”

“I was the one there when he woke up,” the fake psychic defended himself. “That’s brownie points right there!”

Gus snorted.

“That means nothing, Shawn.” He moved to the cupboard and pulled out a box of Twinkies, and turned to face his friend, gesturing with the box in his hand. “Now, you and I are going to sit down, watch Thundercats, and have a chat about why running away doesn’t solve any problems, and if you have a problem with that, then you can find someplace else to crash!”

Shawn whined.

“Dude! Don’t do this to me, man! I don’t have anywhere else to go!”

Gus snapped back, “Your dad has a house, Shawn. What are you complaining about?”

“I repeat: I have nowhere else to go,” he said, giving his friend a pointed look, appalled at the fact that Gus would think he would stoop so low as to stay with his father, but Gus rolled his eyes and replied, “Take it or leave it, Shawn. I’m not giving you any other options.”

* * *

Henry swung open his front door, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Shawn?”

“Hey, dad,” the younger Spencer said tiredly as he shouldered past him into the house that he’d grown up in. Gus hadn’t given him a choice, and he couldn’t help but feel a little bit stung that he’d been forced to lower himself to the lowest possible option: staying with his father.

“Let yourself in, why don’t you,” Spencer muttered as he closed the door and looked back at his son. “So, why’re you here? Did Gus kick you out?”

“What? No, of course not! Why would you say such a thing?” He paused and then added, “Yeah. He kicked me out.”

It took Henry all of two seconds to figure things out and then say, “You’re still avoiding Lassiter, aren’t you? Let me guess…you said something stupid and now you’re avoiding dealing with the consequences, so you’ve stooped so low as to actually come over and hide here.”

Shawn glared at him…and then nodded.

“Yeah. Sort of. Well, it’s more like I made a decision for the both of us and he’s just gonna have to live with it.”

Ah, shit. Henry knew that tone. He’d used it more than once when he and Madelaine had been going through their pre-divorce phase, nothing but argument after argument that usually ended with Henry going to his partner’s house to complain about what was going on, trying to get his partner to back him up, but he never had. In the end, Henry had always been the bad guy, according to Frank, and he hated to admit it, even to himself, but he’d been in the wrong more often than not. Apparently, Shawn had inherited the Spencer arrogance.

Great. This was going to be fun.

He pointed at the dining room table.

“Shawn, sit down.” He saw his son’s defiant look, and he rolled his eyes. “Stop acting like a four-year-old and just sit down.” He sat down. Henry let out a long sigh and sat down across from him. Time to lay down some cold hard truth for once. But first, he needed the facts.

“So,” he drew the word out, taking it slow. “First of all, I need to know what you said to Lassiter.”

Shawn looked about to protest, but he held up a finger and said, “Ah! No excuses, no sarcasm, and no runaround. Just give me the facts.”

He let out an aggravated huff of air and nodded and started with, “I told him it was my fault he got shot.”

“How do you figure that?”

At this, his son pushed back his chair and moved to stand up, saying, “This is ridiculous, you trying to shrink my relationship problems with Lassi. What do you think you’re going to accomplish? What’s been said has been said, and I just have to live with the fact that I am going to be as alone as a lonesome pine for the rest of my life, because, apparently, I get people killed!”

He’d never heard him that pissed off before. Henry hesitated before saying anything else, watching Shawn breathe heavily, his eyes shining, almost as if he was on the verge of tears. But nothing fell. Dammit. This was going to be harder than Henry thought. He took another deep breath and decided on a different tactic. Shawn wasn’t going to tell him everything, so he was going to have to figure out what happened using the skills that he’d taught his son. He had a few more tricks up his sleeve that the younger Spencer didn’t know.

“You think it was your fault he got shot.” Shawn didn’t look at him from where he was standing, but he nodded. “Okay, then…let me follow your logic here. Since it was Mark, and you met him back at the beginning, you’re mad at yourself because you didn’t see it earlier?”

He nodded a second time, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth.

“And because you didn’t catch him, you think it was because you were distracted…” Another nod. “…by Carlton.”

A flinch.

Oh, god. He was pulling a Henry Spencer and claiming that emotions were what compromised you and made you a worse detective. And he’d taken it out on someone he loved. Shit. He was going to have to do some serious damage control. If the damage wasn’t already irreparable, that was.

Henry slowly stood and carefully asked, “Shawn…what _exactly_ did you say to him?”

“Uh, I, uh,” he hesitated a long moment and then finished with, “I might have said…that I was too caught up in him. That you weren’t wrong about it being a bad idea for us to be togeher. And that, uh…relationships cloud my judgment.”

“Shit. You said that?”

He nodded, yet again, as if not trusting himself to say anything more, but then he blurted out, “Oh, and I might have moved all my stuff out of his apartment.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“Yeah. I did.” He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, obviously still holding back tears, and then said, “How bad did I screw up, pops?”

“On a scale of one to ten?” Another nod. “A Spencer.”

“Shit, that bad?”

“Yeah. That bad.”

He let out a rush of air, as if he was deflating, and collapsed back into the dining chair and looked morosely at the table and asked in a voice that took Henry back to when he was just a kid, “How do I fix it? I mean…can it even be fixed, or did I just screw up the best thing that’s ever happened to me in my life?”

Henry looked at his son for a long moment and then replied with, “Unlike me, Shawn, you can fix _your_ relationship.” He looked up with a hopeful look in his eyes. “It starts with going back to him and saying you’re sorry, and that you’re wrong. Also, with moving back in.” He hesitated, as if unsure of what he was about to say, and then tentatively asked, “Need a truck?”

Shawn let out a wet laugh.

“Actually, yeah. It wasn’t exactly easy dragging boxes down four flights of stairs.”

“Seriously, Shawn? You’ve heard of dollies, right?”

“The only Dolly I am aware of is Dolly Parton, and a classic theme park that I worked at for a total of three days before getting told that, apparently, I should not be telling guests that Dolly Parton had herself turned into a sheep and then had herself cloned.”

Henry rolled his eyes, and then clapped a hand over his son’s shoulder.

“C’mon, kid. Let’s get you back where you belong.”

Shawn gave him a watery smile and sniffed slightly, and said, “Sounds good, pops.”

 

 


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG!!! My laptop hasn't been charging, so I couldn't get on it for a couple of weeks, and then I had to send it away to GeekSquad to get it fixed. Nightmare. But, the guy I picked up my laptop from was a total babe and I got his number, so it wasn't all bad...
> 
> So, here you go! Another chapter. And, I am currently working on the next one. I think the story's about to wrap up, but I'm not sure, so stay tuned! Love to you all, my wonderful readers and reviewers!

**Chapter 41**

Spencer knew that it wasn't the best time...but it was the only time. Lassi was back at work, no longer on his forced sick leave, so the psychic was moving his stuff back in, and he was going to pretend like nothing had happened. Hopefully, it would work. In fact, he was purposely avoiding thinking that far ahead.

In his head, Lassi wanted nothing more than to have him back.

So, that's what Shawn was doing. He was giving himself back to him in every single way that he could think of. And, if that meant that sneaking back was the only way that it could be done, then so be it.

He knew that if he tried to talk to him about moving back in, Lassi wouldn't hear a word of it, so this was his only option.

Not that he'd thought too hard on his decision. After hearing his father give him the third degree over how he'd overreacted, he felt that it was his responsibility to step up and make the big decision. He had to do it himself, or else it wouldn't happen at all, so there he was. Alone. Unpacking.

After having Henry help him bring his things back to the apartment, he had shooed him off with the promise that he and Lassi would show up sometime next week for barbecue. Of course, more than just food would be grilled, Shawn was certain.

As he pulled clothes from his duffle bag, he shoved his shirts back into the bottom drawer (which was still empty, a good sign), his shoes into the closet, and then went back into the kitchen and admired the tasteful pineapple backsplash that he'd put up before he'd left. It looked good in there, but he still didn't know if Lassi approved of it or not. Probably not, but he didn't care. He'd had to leave his mark somehow. He stared at it a moment longer, happy with how it brightened up the gray granite counters and dark wood cabinets.

Hesitating, he uncharacteristically bit his lip and doubted himself for a moment.

Maybe...maybe he should have talked to Lassi first. Maybe he shouldn't have just come back to the apartment like nothing had happened. Maybe they should have at least had lunch together. Maybe...

"Nah," he mused out loud. "He loves me too much."

He mulled it over a little while longer and decided that he needed to do something to freshen the place up. It felt...dim. Like something had gone missing since he'd been gone. He glanced around, trying to figure out what it was...and that was when it hit him. Everything was too clean!

Feeling ambitious, he moved towards the bedroom.

* * *

 

Lassiter groaned and let out a heavy sigh, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the back of his neck.

As much as he'd tried to focus on his work that day, he had failed miserably, his thoughts constantly going back to the fact that Spencer had moved out. He was delaying going home because he had no desire to go to home to an empty apartment, and, god, how lame was that? He used to _revel_ in silence before Spencer came along, but now...

He shook his head. He was just going to have to get over it.

Standing up, he grabbed his suit coat from the back of his chair and barked over to his partner, "I'm done for the day, O'Hara. See you tomorrow."

She looked up from the file she had been reading and gave him a faint smile of encouragement, obviously aware of his emotional state, but he brushed it off and headed out the door. As soon as he got to his car, he let out a frustrated sigh. If she kept on treating him like he was going to break, he was going to _break_ something.

The drive home was shorter than he wanted. He was tired, but as soon as he stepped into his apartment, a surge of adrenaline ran through him at seeing things out of place. Someone had broken in. Immediately back in cop mode, he pulled out his gun and swept the front room. No signs of anyone. He took his apartment room by room, looking for any signs of who the perp might be and what they might have taken. Besides everything being out of place and a general mess, he didn't see anything missing.

As he walked into his bedroom, scowling at the now un-made bedspread, he heard the shower running and a voice singing very loudly and purposely off-key...

He ground his back teeth.

Spencer.

The adrenaline turned into a smoldering fury as he stalked into the bathroom and ripped aside the curtain, and smirked when Shawn shrieked at an unholy high pitch when he was exposed.

"Lassi! What are you doing home?"

"Spencer. What the hell are you doing in my apartment?"

Recovering quickly, the younger man turned off the water and then reached out and grabbed a towel. As he wrapped it around his waist, he retorted, "Excuse me, Lassi-face, but I believe you mean _our_ apartment. I am here because I live here, _obviously."_

It took all of the head detective's effort to not simply slug him in jaw. As satisfying as it might feel, it wouldn't solve their current problem. Instead, he glared at him and silently fumed as the fake psychic brushed past him and into the bedroom, searching for clothes. No. Carlton was not going to let him get away with this. He knew what Spencer was doing. He was acting as if nothing had happened, as if they'd never had an argument, and was trying to force the two of them back to where they were before it all got shot to hell.

"No, Shawn. You don't."

At that, Spencer turned, one hand still holding his towel around his waist, his other clutching a pair of gray boxer-briefs.

"I don't what?" he inquired, arching an eyebrow, and Lassiter held back the urge to hit him, just as before, and replied, "You don't live here, anymore. Not since you made the executive decision for both of us to no longer be a part of this relationship!"

"Why not?"

The head detective stormed towards him, putting his weapon back in his holster, and said, "You can't just waltz back in here like nothing happened!"

"I believe I just did," he retorted, and then quickly added, "Oh, and by the way, Henry helped me move my stuff back in, so that means that we're going to be prisoners of his barbecue sometime next week. Promise I couldn't really get out of. By the way, he's in a weird experimental phase with his grill and his flavors, which, _honestly_ , aren't all that great, so I reserve the right to tell you 'I told you so' the instant he pulls out the mango marinade."

He turned back to Lassi, half a grin on his lips, the boxers still in his outstretched hand.

Carlton stopped about a foot away, however, his face burning, and spat out, "Dammit, Shawn, why do you have to be like this?"

Hesitating in his usual quick comeback, he replied quietly, "Like what...?"

Lassiter snapped.

"Why do you have to treat this relationship like it's one of your playthings? You're like a child! You do not have the right to throw my heart on the ground when you're tired of playing with it and then pick it back up when you're bored! Our relationship is not a _toy!"_

He gasped for air after his outburst and suddenly realized that the heat he felt on his cheeks was tears. Fuck, he was crying.

No. Not in front of Shawn. He quickly turned away from his boyfriend and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, removing any sign of emotional weakness, and then turned back around and said, in a voice as cold as iron and barely above a whisper, "I think you should go."

Spencer stood there, his green eyes confused...and then that was when Carlton saw it, a shimmer of something he'd never seen before in the psychic.

Pure panic.

But why...?

"Lassi," Shawn said softly, his voice sounding broken. "C-Carlton...please." He was begging. Shawn never begged. "Please don't...don't ask me to go. I, I know I fucked up. I fucked up big time, and you deserve someone so much better than me, but I just can't see my life without you, and I didn't mean what I said in the hospital, please believe me..." He took a tentative step towards him, dropping the boxer-briefs on the floor. "...I-I don't have a lot to offer, I know that. I'm too loud, I make too much of a mess, my hair's better than yours, and I have much better taste in clothes than you ever will, but you..."

He paused, and Lassiter bit his tongue. He wanted to say something back, but he knew that if he did, Shawn might not tell him what was going on with him. In fact, at that moment, Shawn looked the most vulnerable that Carlton had ever seen him. He stood there holding the towel to his waist, still dripping from the shower that he'd unceremoniously been pulled out of, his hair plastered to his head: he looked like a puppy that had been reluctantly dragged out of the rain into the house for doing something wrong.

"...You believe in the best of me," he finally gasped out.

The detective didn't know what to say to that.

"And, _because_ you believe in the best of me," he continued, "...that's all I ever want to be when you're in my life..."

Lassiter felt every bit of anger leave him at hearing those words. Was this really what it was like? To love someone so much that they brought out not only the worst, but the absolute best in you? He wanted nothing more than to believe Shawn...but another part of him was still bitter. He had made the decision to _leave._ To leave like it was nothing; as if their _entire_ , messed up, roller-coaster of a relationship had meant _nothing_ to him, and it hurt him more than he wanted to admit.

But the other part of him that inexplicably loved the younger man was yelling at him to just let him _come back._ That part of him was in love with Shawn: in love with his brilliance, his genius, his kindness...but most of all, with the way that Carlton felt like a better person when he was around him.

The head detective inwardly bristled. No. He couldn't give in. How could he let Spencer just walk back into his life? He couldn't.

As that thought hit him, however, he came to a stunning realization...

Yes. He could.

Right now, he absolutely could. For both of their sakes, he had to say yes to their relationship right _now_ , because Shawn just might be convinced that he had no more chances if Lassi rejected him when it was obvious that he desperately needed him. Later, however, they were going to have a long, difficult discussion about their issues. About what could and could not happen between them. Like Spencer just up and moving out without a single word in Carlton's direction. That wouldn't be happening again. But for now, they needed each other.

"Shawn," he said gently, looking him in the eye. "...That's all I needed to hear."

As if some invisible string had been cut, the younger man's shoulders sagged in relief, and Carlton stepped towards him, wrapping an arm around him, not caring that his clothes were getting wet. They hugged for a long time, both of their arms tight and unforgiving, neither of them wanting to let go...until the fake psychic muttered something unintelligible into his shoulder.

"What was that?" the older man gently asked, and Shawn pulled his head back far enough to reply, "Does this mean I can finish my shower? I didn't get to condition, yet..."

Letting out a sigh that was equally amused and annoyed, Carlton said, "Sure. Finish your shower. Then we can talk, okay?"

Shawn nodded.

"Fair enough."

He pulled away, but smiled when the older man suddenly stated, "If Henry even _dares_ to reach for the mango marinade, I will personally arrest him for committing atrocities against barbecuing."

"How about pineapple?" Shawn retorted, and Lassiter smiled.

"I can live with pineapple."

With a small smile on the corner of his mouth and a bounce in his step, the younger man headed back to the bathroom, leaving more wet footprints behind him on the hardwood floor. The detective glared at them for a moment, and then rolled his eyes and went to get a towel from the linen closet. Spencer was a slob; that much he knew he wouldn't change.

He smiled to himself.

One thing at a time.

 

 


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is *finally* getting wrapped up! There will be a few more chapters, but don't fret, lots of good things in them! After the emotional roller-coaster that I've put you through as a writer, I feel that you deserve some sweet domestic fluff, so here's a chapter that does just that! Writing domestic!Shassie just gives me all the warm fuzzies, and I hope that you enjoy it!
> 
> (by the way, sorry about my inconsistent updating schedule. My muse likes to only work when I'm at work, now, and rarely when I'm at home)

**Chapter 42**

It had been a little over a week and they were getting back into the natural rhythm of their relationship. Shawn was being annoying, pushing all of Carlton’s buttons while at work, and the head detective still snapped at him and insisted that he not be put on cases. Spencer had been interviewed about the death of Mark McCurdy, the murderer that he’d killed in self-defense, and everything had been cleared, which Lassiter took as a godsend. Things could have been so much worse, but since it was clearly a cut-and-dry defense case, everything had gone smoothly.

Gus was regularly coming over to check on Shawn under the guise of bringing over food for the two of them, but Lassiter wasn’t fooled.

O’Hara was hovering, and Vick was giving her head detective the stink-eye for coming back into work so soon after the shooting, which meant that everything was back to normal. Everything was pretty much exactly the way it was before…except for the fact that he was screwing his boyfriend pretty much every night now. That was a welcome change.

It was all good. Work life and personal life in order, everything the way that it should be…

…Until, of course, Spencer ruined it. It was an accident, of course, and Lassiter couldn’t really blame him…no, he could. So, he was going to because it made him feel better.

They had finished a case and, offhandedly, the fake psychic had said, “Man, that charred body almost put me off barbecue. It would be nice to have an excuse for me and Lassi to miss Henry’s on Saturday.”

Juliet had looked over at him at that and asked, “Your dad’s having a barbecue?”, and several heads in the precinct had turned in Shawn’s direction.

Not even thinking about it (of _course_ ), Spencer had replied, “Yeah, but he’s still in his “experimental” phase, which means whipping out all the weird flavors, and I don’t know if my delicate stomach and taste buds can handle it…”

Gus had snorted at that and retorted back with, “Uh, Shawn, you just had a deluxe chimichanga with chili, three types of cheese, extra bacon, and pineapple salsa! Delicate stomach, my ass,” and both Juliet and Lassiter had attempted to hold in amused grins as the fake psychic had glared at his friend in mock anger.

“I’ll have you know that Carlos is a master chef!”

“Where’d he get his degree? From a Tesco station?”

After their exchange, which had proceeded to go on for three minutes, Spencer had inadvertently invited half the precinct to the barbecue. And Lassiter was inwardly fuming. He purposely avoided his coworkers outside of work because he liked his work life and his _personal_ life, simply put, separate. Shawn being the only exception.

He did _not_ want half of his work there when Henry Spencer grilled him about his relationship with his son. He didn’t need even more witnesses to his humiliation.

However, as the weekend came closer, he couldn’t help but notice that Shawn was in a much better mood knowing that there would be more people there, and he felt a little bit guilty for being so angry with him. If Carlton was uncomfortable being around Henry, how much more awkward must it be for Shawn? No wonder he wanted more people there. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to spend time with Carlton, it was that he needed a buffer between him and his dad.

As much as he resented it, he understood it.

So, at the end of work Friday night, instead of his anger building, he consciously tried to not worry as much. He would not make things worse for Shawn just because he was uncomfortable with so many people being there. For Spencer, people were his emotional shield between himself and his father. He would let him have that much.

\--

Saturday morning, Carlton woke up in an overbearingly hot tangle of limbs, Spencer wrapped around him like an octopus holding onto its’ prey. As he attempted to untangle himself, however, Shawn gripped him tighter and murmured, “Stay, stay, stay. Le’s no’ go…”

The detective rolled his eyes and tried to move a second time, but Shawn groaned and squeezed his waist with his arms and his hips with his thighs, keeping him from moving any further.

“We don’t have to be there until twelve, Shawn,” he reassured him, as he continued to struggle in the younger man’s surprisingly strong grip. “It’s only six.”

At this, Shawn’s eyes peeked open and he hissed out in a painfully exhausted voice, “What in the holy-name-of-Bruce-Willis-in-Die-Hard are you doing waking me up at the _un_ holy hour of six in the morning…on a _Saturday_?”

He rolled his eyes a second time, pried Shawn’s fingers from his waist and kicked his legs off, and answered, “I still have a routine to keep, Spencer, and you know that the weekend isn’t any exception. You can sleep in if you want to. Now, _off_ ,” he added, as Shawn tried to (unsuccessfully) wrap himself back around him.

He let out a grump of agitation, but let himself be pried away, and then the fake psychic proceeded to grab the blankets and wrapped them around himself until he became an indistinguishable bundled mass of blue comforter on the bed. Carlton sat on the edge and stared over at his boyfriend, marveling that he had fallen in love with someone so different from him…and so much more immature than him. Lassiter had always been a morning person and that was just how it was, and Shawn was the furthest thing from a morning person. _Especially_ on the weekends.

“Want me to make you pancakes after I come back from my run?” he asked as he stood up and walked over to the dresser, unsure if Spencer was even still awake, and his question was answered with a muffled reply of, “Wfls.” Waffles, then. He’d take that as a yes.

He quickly threw on his shorts, academy t-shirt, and tucked his housekey into his sock.

Five miles and fifty minutes later, he was back at home, sweaty and uncomfortable. He shucked off his clothes and headed for the shower, debating whether or not to wake Shawn up, who was still bundled under the covers, one foot sticking out from beneath the blanket. As much as he’d like to, and for them to possibly enjoy their morning shower _together_ …he knew that it would involve more elbows and knees getting in the way as Shawn tried to move all over the shower using his various hair products, and Carlton wanted nothing to do with that.

As he walked out, however, he saw the bed empty, the comforter strewn on the floor, and he was confused. It was only twenty minutes after seven. There was no way that Spencer had gotten up willingly, unless…

He took a deep breath.

Yep. He could smell waffles. Apparently, his stomach had decided it for him. Why was the head detective not surprised?

Grumbling, he quickly made the bed, and then slid on his casual chinos and one of his civilian button-ups (it didn’t have the fitted shoulders). He walked into the kitchen barefoot, still buttoning up his shirt, and his fingers fumbled and stopped at the sight in front of him: Spencer was shirtless, wearing just a worn-out pair of plaid pajama pants, which were slung low on his hips and his now-more-filled-out waist. His hair was mussed, his chest flushed from the heat of the stove in front of him, and Carlton could see the scar on his left shoulder from his old bullet wound. Several bite-sized bruises were on his hips and shoulders from the night before, and half of one peeked over the back edge of his pajama pants, teasing him.

He stopped buttoning his shirt.

His mouth dried up.

Carlton finally managed to swallow a couple of times, and then was finally able to say, “Morning, Shawn…”

Throwing him a quick smile, the younger man replied, “Morning, Lassi. Do you want peanut butter, chocolate sauce, pineapple, syrup, or butter on your waffles?”

The detective shuddered at the sound of some of the topping ingredients and simply said, “Butter and syrup is fine,” and then walked up behind him and slid his hands around his boyfriend’s waist, unable to keep from touching him when he was in such a beautifully disheveled state.

Spencer hummed in the back of his throat and leaned his head back on Lassiter’s shoulder.

“Hmm, I could get used to this,” he muttered, and Lassiter snorted, “Yeah, probably not,” and leaned over and stole the forgotten waffle iron from Spencer’s limp hand and turned it and opened it, saying, “If you’re distracted, all you’re going to do is burn my breakfast.”

Shawn, obviously feeling frisky, suddenly turned in his arms and leaned up and nipped at his ear and whispered, “Oh, it can wait, I think,” and then leaned down and proceeded to lick a long line up Carlton’s neck. The older man’s knees wavered for a moment, but he steeled himself and shook his head and replied, “No. After last night, we need food.”

As if agreeing with him, Shawn’s stomach growled loudly and Carlton smirked.

“Oh, okay. Fine,” the fake psychic reluctantly conceded, placing one last lingering kiss on his neck, and they each grabbed a plate and sat down to enjoy a quiet breakfast.

As they ate, Shawn’s feet ended up in the older man’s lap…but he didn’t complain, and instead let himself be used as a footstool. Their intimacy suddenly hit him right in the gut, however, when Shawn looked over at him with such a fond look that it nearly took his breath away. Sure, they had fucked each other silly just the night before, but this…this was so much more than that. It was like finding where his home truly was after years of searching for it. It was with him.

Shawn suddenly broke the silence with, “So, about this afternoon…do we _have_ to go?”

Lassiter glared and pushed his feet off his lap.

“Yes, Shawn. We do.”

“Do we have to bring anything?” he asked with a whining tone in his voice more befitting to a five-year-old than a fully-grown man.

Lassiter rolled his eyes and picked up both of their plates and took them to the sink and said, “Yes. I already bought a potato salad, and it’s sitting in the fridge.”

At his words, Spencer’s lips tightened, and he looked down and to the side and said in a voice just above a whisper, “Uh…about that…”

The head detective hissed out a breath and snapped out, “Dammit, Spencer. You ate it, didn’t you?”

Shawn looked up at him apologetically, his eyes wide and trying to portray innocence, but Lassiter wasn’t buying it, not for one, measly second. When was Shawn going to learn that not _all_ food was just for him? When was he going to understand that he had to think about _other_ people?

He quickly tried to defend himself with, “Hey, I didn’t know it was for the barbecue! I woke up, I was hungry, so I had a late-night snack…”

“Which happened to be an entire container of potato salad?”

Shawn hesitated and replied, “Not _all_ of it…”

He tightened his jaw and walked over the refrigerator, knowing what he was most likely going to find when he opened it and dreading every second. Lassiter opened it anyway…and found exactly what he’d expected. There was the container of potato salad…with about three bites left in the bottom. He ground his back teeth, stood back up and then turned and glared at his boyfriend.

“We’re going to the store.”

Shawn nodded.

“We can always buy a fruit tray,” he suggested, and Carlton let out another snort. “Yeah, and you’d eat all the pineapple…”

“Nope. Scout’s honor.”

“You weren’t a Scout,” Lassiter quipped back, and Shawn grinned.

“Oh, are we having this argument a second time?”

Carlton rolled his eyes. It was going to be a long day.

 

 


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter 43**

He was actually wearing a t-shirt and jeans to the barbecue. Feeling slightly self-conscious, even though they hadn’t even left the apartment yet, Carlton adjusted his t-shirt one more time (the damn thing kept riding up) and attempted to comb his hair just as Spencer walked into the living room…and then stopped.

Giving him a look, one eyebrow raised, the detective asked, “Spencer, what are you--?”, but was interrupted by the younger man suddenly invading his personal space and taking the comb from his hand. He felt his face flush hot as his boyfriend gave him a hungry look and said in a breathless voice, “You own jeans?”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with--”

He was cut off and made a sound of protest ( _not_ a squeak, because Head Detective Carlton Lassiter did not _squeak_ ) as Shawn’s fingers slid around him and into the back pockets of his jeans, firmly groping his ass, his breath hot on Carlton’s ear.

“Oh, Lassi,” muttered the fake psychic. “You need to wear these more often.” He squeezed him a second time, even as his boyfriend struggled against him, and added, “Or, less often, really, as I’m about to peel these right off you in about three seconds.”

“Spencer!” he hissed back. “We’re going to be late!”

His eyebrow arched.

“So?”

And then he proceeded to drag him over to the couch and pull him on top of him. Carlton fumed. Even though his body was all for it, they needed to leave. He was _not_ going to be late just because the sight of him in jeans happened to make Shawn hornier than a twelve-year-old at a Victoria’s Secret runway show.

But then he arched up into him…

Okay. They were gonna be late.

Deciding to skip the preliminaries, Carlton grabbed Shawn’s hands from his pockets and pulled them up and pinned them to the arm of the couch and said in a low growl, “Don’t. Move. A muscle.” and then slid down his front until he got to edge of his jeans. He’d only done this once before, but now it seemed that he was ready to do it again.

He popped the button and slid down the zipper and grinned when he saw that his younger half hadn’t worn any boxers. Perfect.

He slid the jeans slightly down his hips to have a bit more room, and then wrapped one hand around the base of Shawn’s erection…and the man let out a perfect broken sigh, and Carlton knew that he was gonna enjoy watching him fall apart underneath him.

Eager, he slid his mouth over Shawn’s cock, and held back his grin as the younger man let out a groan. He wasn’t going slow. They had limited time after all.

He moved his mouth up and down using plenty of tongue, and let his other hand reach down and press lightly against his perineum. Shawn let out a, “Fuck, Lassi!” and the detective grinned. He moved his mouth faster and then squeezed his thumb, and pushed his mouth nearly all the way down, Shawn’s cock hitting the back of his throat…and sliding partway in.

“Gnnnh!”

Carlton groaned.

Shawn didn’t last much longer than that.

\--

Due to Spencer _distracting_ him, they arrived at Henry’s almost half an hour late…but it didn’t seem to matter, as the rest of the station had already showed up. McNabb and Gus stood over by the grill, next to Mr. Spencer, and Vick and O’Hara were sitting on lawn chairs, both of them with iced tea in their hands. Several other officers were there, milling around and snacking on chips, and at seeing everyone there, Shawn leaned in and whispered in his ear, “We could have bailed and Henry wouldn’t have even _noticed_ ,” to which Lassiter replied, “Shut up, Shawn,” and they walked in carrying a large fruit tray…devoid of any pineapple.

“Carlton!” O’Hara. “Hey, I was wondering when you two were gonna show. I mean, you? _Late_? That’s a first,” she added, standing up and letting Shawn give her a hug.

“Oh, that was my fault,” the fake psychic replied, and both Carlton and Juliet’s eyebrows shot up at his admission. “I mean, I couldn’t really help it when I saw him in jeans and a t-shirt, you know?” he said, looking at his boyfriend with an obviously hungry look. “We didn’t get much farther than the couch, and, thank god, Lassi doesn’t have a gag reflex, if you know what I--”

Carlton clamped his free hand over Spencer’s mouth.

“Don’t. Say. Another word.”

Juliet bit her lip and tried not to laugh, even as her face flushed a bright pink at Spencer’s words.

As if an answer to an unspoken prayer, McNabb walked over and said, in that all too bright tone of his, “Oh! You brought a fruit plate! Great, let me just put it over with the rest of the food,” and then grabbed the tray from Carlton’s hand and took it over to the long table that was on the other side of the yard, already heavy with the other guest’s contributions.

Not having anything to hold, Lassiter felt awkward and tucked his hands into his jeans, the ones that had distracted Shawn and made them late in the first place.

Yes, he owned jeans. No, he didn’t usually wear them because they were a bit on the fitted side and he had never found them practical for anything besides doing housework. However, he had the faint idea that he’d be wearing them more often in the future, considering how Spencer had reacted to them. The t-shirt, too, was something he already owned, but, again, he never found them practical for anything besides housework. He was a professional, goddammit, so he dressed like one.

However, as he walked over to the cooler to grab a soda, he saw Shawn’s eyes following his every move and he grinned. Yes. Perhaps he could wear it more often.

As he took a long sip of diet coke, he felt a firm hand land on his shoulder. He didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“Hello, Henry.”

The older man squeezed.

“Carlton. Wanna see the house?” he casually asked, and the detective immediately recognized the tone. He was trying to get him alone. Well, might as well get it over with.

“Sure,” he replied, and followed him inside, glancing over his shoulder to see if Shawn was okay with it, but he was in an animated conversation with Gus and Juliet, waving his hands in the air, and he felt a brief wave of reassurance. He didn’t need to know what his dad was about to do.

Henry closed the back door and then led him towards the living room, and as they walked in, Lassiter was suddenly grateful that he’d grabbed a soda beforehand. It kept his hands occupied and gave him something to do during the inevitable awkward silences.

“So…you and Shawn.”

Carlton nodded. Henry nodded.

Silence.

He took a sip.

Henry then gave him a look and added, “How’re you two doing with, you know…everything? The shooting, the…the moving-out-moving-back-in thing?”

He left it hanging, and Carlton took another sip of his soda, swallowed, and then took a deep breath and replied, “Actually, we’re doing pretty good.” He fiddled with the can for a moment and then explained, “We, uh, we talked the other evening about it and laid out some ground rules.” They _had_ talked, and it had taken them around four long, _agonizing_ hours to get through it all, but it had helped. “He knows he can’t just do things without telling me, and I know that I have to be more… _open_ with my feelings.”

“That…that’s good,” hedged Henry. He sat down on the couch.

Carlton took another sip of his soda, but remained standing, hoping the awkward silence would end on its’ own.

Finally, Henry broke the silence and said exactly what the head detective had been waiting for him to say the entire time.

“What you see in my son, I will never know,” he deadpanned. “You and him are more alike than I’d like to admit, but you two have the potential to really screw shit up if you let it go sideways.” Carlton opened his mouth to protest, but Henry stopped him with a raised hand and, “I’m serious, Carlton. Yes, you’re getting along now, and, _yes_ , he entrusted you with his biggest secret…but that doesn’t mean that it’s always gonna be this way.”

Unable to actually find a decent argument against him, Lassiter nodded, and decided to wait it out.

Henry continued with, “The two of you bring out the _worst_ in each other, in the absolute worst possible ways and you _know_ it.”

He nodded again.

“But,” he added after a beat. “You also bring out the best in each other.”

With that, he stood back up and faced Lassiter, squaring his shoulders to the taller man’s, and looked him straight in the eye. Henry held Carlton’s gaze for a while, as if trying to see what the detective was thinking, and then, after a long, awkward silence, he nodded.

“If you two take care of each other, I won’t have any issues. But,” he snapped, raising a finger. “If things don’t work out, don’t expect any sympathy from me. I may have been a cop, but I _will_ take Shawn’s side over yours. So help me, if you hurt him, I will _ruin_ you…”

He let that linger in the air between them…and Carlton nodded.

“Fair enough, Henry. Fair enough.”

Henry nodded one last time and the two of them walked back outside to find that Spencer had somehow convinced everyone to participate in a convoluted game of charades that involved, of course, eating the entire fruit plate that the two of them had brought. Carlton let out a frustrated sigh and crumpled the now empty can in his fist, while Henry let out a chuckle and slapped a hand on his shoulder and said, “Hey, you’re the one who chose him…”

“I rethink my decision every day,” the detective muttered under his breath and Henry laughed.

“Of course, you do.”

As the retired cop walked away, Carlton looked over at Spencer and watched him as he arched his back and walked in a weird way, making odd motions with his feet while Juliet yelled out guesses and Gus merely watched, sipping on a brightly colored mixed drink with an orange umbrella in it.

Yes. He’d chosen him.

The reason _why_ he’d chosen him, however, was escaping him at that particular moment. He just wanted a damn burger, already. He looked over and saw Henry back at the grill, with McNabb hovering once more, obviously trying to give him advice, but Lassiter was fairly certain that Henry was hearing none of it, as he reached for the mango marinade.

Lassiter looked over at Shawn and watched as the Chief randomly yelled out, “Kuzco, the Emperor’s New Groove!” and Shawn cheered, “Yes! Finally! I thought the feet were a dead giveaway!” and proceeded to high-five her, which she returned enthusiastically. My god, he’d even gotten Vick involved…and she was _smiling_ and _laughing._ Just as he thought about going to get another drink to escape from being noticed, Shawn saw him and yelled, “Lassi! Come join us! We’re about to start round three!”

Carlton glared back at him and growled out, “Not happening, Spencer.”

Undeterred, the younger man jogged over to him and slid an arm around his waist and looked up at him with soft eyes and said, “C’mon, just for me? I promise I won’t embarrass you…”

Lassiter snorted.

“Yeah, right.”

Shawn tilted his head to the side and conceded, “Yeah, you’re probably right. But it was worth a shot, wasn’t it?”

His bright, genuine grin threw Carlton off-balance. Wait…he _wasn’t_ going to force him to do it? Well, this was a surprise. He licked his suddenly dry lips, trying to figure out what had just happened, and his boyfriend saw his reaction and smiled.

“I’m not make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with, Carlton,” he said softly. “That’s one of our rules, and I’m gonna follow it. To the letter.”

At this, the detective’s eyebrow shot up and he quipped, “You’re not going to tell me which letter?”

Shawn’s smile grew even wider into a cheesy grin, and he said, “Every single one of the alphabet, babe! No takesie-backsies!”

And with that, he pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth and went back to the group, who had continued the game without him, Juliet front and center, miming something very convoluted, possibly something to do with another Disney movie, if Carlton’s guess was right.

He stood there for a moment, slightly taken back by what had just happened.

He had said no…and Shawn had respected it. Sure, he’d teased a little bit, but other than that, it had been completely fine. He’d been mature and level-headed about the whole thing, and that…well, that was saying something. He watched them play for a bit longer, lingering on the sidelines, and he had a flash of insight why people like Gus, Juliet, and the Chief were all drawn in by Shawn Spencer. He was always willing to see the best in people and he brought the most unlikely people together.

As he saw the Chief share a smile with Gus, someone that she rarely interacted with, Carlton knew.

Shawn brought out the best in people.

The best in him.

Which was why he’d fallen in love with the man. He made him feel like all parts of him mattered, even the parts of himself that he didn’t particularly like…and he couldn’t imagine life without him. Oh, no. He…he actually _couldn’t_ imagine life without him.

Suddenly, unbidden, Madelaine’s words echoed in his head… “ _When do you plan on making an honest man out of my son?”_

He smiled to himself.

It just might be sooner than he thought.

 

 


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44**

Carlton fingered the box in his pocket and then went back to typing. It had been over two months since the barbecue, and now he was about to do the scariest thing he’d ever done in his life. He thought it had been bad when he’d asked Victoria, but this…this was far, far worse. His biggest problem? Keeping it a secret from the best damn deductive detective he’d ever known.

The past two weeks had been the most stressful ones of his life, dodging and avoiding his boyfriend as much as possible, while still spending time with him, and O’Hara wasn’t making it any easier by continuously giving him strange looks.

He had been able to brush it off for the most part, but today she was getting on his _last_ nerve.

“O’Hara, stop staring!” he barked at her as he sat at his desk, finishing filling out reports on the man they’d just arrested for robbery of a local drug store.

“What, what are you…I’m not looking!” she protested, and Lassiter rolled his eyes.

“Yes. You are. Stop it.”

She let out a frustrated sigh and then said, “Well, I can’t really help it, Carlton! You’ve been acting weird for the past week and you haven’t said anything, so I’m worried that something’s going on with you and Shawn. I mean,” she added, getting up from her desk and walking over to him, “I don’t want to see something simple tear the two of you apart after all the things that you’ve been through, already, so I think I have every right to be worried. You’re not exactly mister shares-his-feelings, you know.”

He released his own frustrated sigh and nodded, understanding where she was coming from, and then quickly reassured her with, “Shawn and I have an open-feelings policy, no judgments allowed. It has _nothing_ to do with him…”

Yay. Another lie.

Instead of being reassured, however, her interest piqued.

“Well, if it’s not about him, then what’s going on?”

He wanted to throw something. He didn’t. Instead, he turned and said, “O’Hara…I can’t talk about it right now. Okay?”

She gave him a look, but didn’t press the issue any further and he breathed a sigh of relief when she went and sat back down at her desk. As she began typing again, he collapsed into his chair and dropped his hands in his lap and stared blankly at his screen. Nope. He wasn’t going to get any work done today. On an impulse, he stood back up, grabbed his coat, and headed for the door.

Just as he opened it, however, his partner looked up at him and said, “Carlton? Where’re you going?”

He arched an eyebrow.

“I’m taking the day off.”

And he walked out.

\--

After going back home and reluctantly changing into more casual clothes, Lassiter found himself standing on the beach out near the Psych office. What the hell was he doing here? He glanced over his shoulder to see the green-lettered sign in the window just a block away and then sat down on one of the benches along the shore.

Feeling a bit lost and impulsive, he pulled off his shoes and socks and stuck his toes in the sand. It was a nostalgic feeling. It had been a long time since he’d done something like that.

It was childish, even; something Spencer would do.

He sat there for a long time, staring at couples walking by, and looked sadly at a few families that passed by, as well. Would Shawn even say yes? The man was absolutely _allergic_ to commitment in every single possible way. Sure, he was committed to being a pain in the ass and somehow weirdly committed to his best friend, Gus, but other than that…

Carlton let out an agitated sigh.

As much as he hated to admit it, even to _himself_ , he was in love with the fake psychic and honestly could _not_ imagine his life without him in it. When he thought back to before he’d ever known Shawn, he marveled that he had ever even really _had_ a life. It had been devoid of anything besides guns, work, and historical reenactments. He snorted. He even took his hobbies too seriously. It had taken the whirlwind hurricane named Shawn Spencer to make him realize just how empty of color his life had been…and now he couldn’t go back.

The man was like intrusive sunshine in your face on an early morning, or a flashlight being shined directly into your eyes: insanely bright, annoying…but immediately missed when it was gone. Even when he flailed around and bruised flesh and emotions in his wake…he was missed.

 _Goddammit_ , he thought to himself. _I’m waxing poetic over his faults, even…_

As if he’d heard his thoughts, he heard a familiar voice holler, “Hey, Lassi! What’re you doing here?”

He let out a sigh. Of course, it was him.

“Shawn,” he replied, but didn’t look in his direction. He knew that it was more than enough to garner his boyfriend’s attention, and he was right. He walked right over and sat down next to him on the bench, nudging his knee against his and pressing up against him so they were flush; Shawn’s left to his right.

“What’re you doing over here? Not that I’m complaining, mind you,” he added, reaching his hand over to squeeze his thigh. “You’re just mister responsibility and don’t seem like the type to ditch work to go to the beach. And in civvies, too!” he exclaimed, and Carlton turned his head and saw a large grin on Shawn’s face. “Lookin’ good, babe.”

Shawn leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, and instead of pulling away and telling him off for doing that in public, Carlton accepted it and even leaned into it slightly, finally realizing that it just might be the right time to ask the question that had been burning in his pocket for weeks. Spencer smiled at him and softly said, “Hey, now _that’s_ a first. No telling me off for the PDA? Wow…” He paused, gave him a long look, and then said, “Okay, what’s wrong.”

The detective started at that and pathetically covered with, “What? Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. What, I can’t just take a day off? Is it so _strange_ that I let you kiss me in public?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes and moved to get up, but Shawn reached up and pulled him back down with a firm grip on his arm.

“Lassi…Carlton,” he corrected, and the man in question looked back at him, their eyes locking. “What’s wrong?”

He said it with such softness and such sincerity, the older man knew that he had to say something. Something, anything, and possibly…the most important thing. He swallowed. Shit. This was it. This was the moment that he’d been hoping for. Oh, boy. Well…here went nothing.

He licked his lips.

“Shawn…you know that I… _love_ you, right?” Spencer nodded, and, for once, did not snap back with a fast or clever remark, as if he somehow knew that what Carlton was about to say was important. “Well, for a while, now, I’ve been…thinking. About us.” The fake psychic nodded a second time. Carlton continued. “We’ve been together almost a year, now, and…well…we’ve known each other a lot longer than that. So, since the two of us are, uh, together, and living with each other, I thought…maybe…you’d like to…make it more…permanent?”

There. He’d asked. He let out the breath of air that he’d been holding in, and looked at his boyfriend, wondering what the man who was afraid of commitment was going to say.

Shawn licked his lips, tilted his head, and then gave him a quizzical look and said, “Did you just…propose to me?”

Lassiter nodded…and Spencer laughed. The head detective scowled.

His anger building, he snapped, “You could have just said no, Spencer, you don’t have to laugh in my face about it…”

“No, no, no, Carly,” Shawn quickly reassured him, “I am _not_ laughing because I’m saying no, it’s a definite yes, for sure, it’s just… _that’s_ what you call a proper _proposal?_ I mean, I was expecting a nice dinner, maybe some candlelight and soft music, some flowers followed by sex involving chocolate and/or pineapple…but not this! You’re the romantic one, after all. I mean,” he added, still chuckling, “ _I’m_ the one who’s supposed to make messes out of this stuff, not you! My god, I can’t wait to tell Juliet, she’s going to wish I took a video…”

He kept on chuckling, giving his boyfriend a fond look, and then smiled when Carlton’s look of anger turned to one of confusion…and then one of irritation.

“So, it’s a yes, then?”

Shawn slowly stopped laughing and gave him a soft smile and said, “Well, duh. I can’t exactly benefit from marriage benefits if I don’t have your last name, now, can I?”

Irritated, angry, but also overwhelmingly relieved and overjoyed, Carlton leaned in and cupped Shawn’s jaw in his left hand, pulled him close and murmured in his ear, “I think Shawn Lassiter has a nice ring to it,” and then kissed him. It was easily the most emotional kiss he’d ever shared with the man, and he knew that he was crying. Their lips connected several more times, each time lingering a bit longer than the last, neither of them noticing the sweet smiles in their direction from the strangers that passed by on the beach.

Carlton ran his fingers over Shawn’s cheek and felt warm, wet trails under them. He was crying, too.

They slowly pulled back, blue eyes meeting green, and stared at each other for a long moment, neither of them quite believing what had just happened. And then…

“Dude! There are kids around here!” yelled a familiar voice, and Carlton groaned. “Look, I’m happy for you and all, but unless you two are planning on putting on a show for the whole boardwalk, Shawn, you have the keys to the office and I’d really like to get back inside and put down this damn tray of cheesy tacos that is about to spill all over my brand-new pants!”

Gus glared at both of them from about twenty feet away, and Lassiter was ready to lash out, but instead inquired, “Tray of tacos? What’s he doing carrying--?”

“Dude, it’s Taco Tuesday at Rico’s Taco Truck!” interjected his boyfriend, as if it explained everything. “We go every Tuesday, rain or shine.”

“Uh, no we don’t!” yelled Gus. “This is the first time we’ve gone!”

“I’ve heard it both ways!” Shawn hollered back and Carlton couldn’t help but grin as they began their usual banter. He then pulled Shawn’s attention back to him with a single touch of his hand on the younger man’s wrist, and said, “I got you something,” and pulled out the ring box from his pocket. Spencer smiled, and the older man added, “Do you have any idea how hard it was to keep you from finding out?”

Shawn smirked.

“Who says I didn’t know?” he said, just as Carlton slid the ring onto his finger, and the head detective’s shoulders fell in defeat.

In a beleaguered tone, he asked, “How long did you know?”

Shawn shrugged.

“Oh, only a few days or so.”

“Three weeks!” corrected Gus, yelling once more and getting more and more agitated with each passing second. Lassiter tugged Spencer to his feet, and listened in amusement as the both of them continued yelling at each other and carrying on their “argument” like the head detective wasn’t even there as they walked back to the front door of their office.

As soon as Gus stepped inside (after Spencer took his time unlocking the door, mocking his friend the entire time), Lassiter held Shawn back with a gentle tug on his shoulder and carefully asked, “I’m stuck with the two of you as a set, aren’t I?”

Shawn grinned.

“Yep. But don’t worry,” he said, firmly reaching around and groping Carlton’s ass. “I’m the only one that gets this part of you.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes.

What the hell had he just gotten himself into?

 

 

 


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers, Reviewers, and Followers -
> 
> This is the last chapter. 
> 
> My god, this story was only supposed to be ten chapters. Ten! Then it took on a life of its' own and I have never felt so rewarded from writing any other story in my life!! Thank you, SO MUCH, to ALL of my amazing and wonderful reviewers! This has been a labor of love and has stretched me in so many ways. 
> 
> Thank you, again, for all of your kind words and support! I would do a shout out, but there are too many people to name for me to do so, so just another huge THANK YOU for all of your reviews.
> 
> This pairing is near and dear to my heart and I am glad that you were able to enjoy the journey with me.
> 
> Lots of love,  
> NephilimEQ

** **

 

 

**Chapter 45**

It took them a little over four months to plan the wedding, and when the day finally came…well. Yeah. Stuff happened.

Of course the day of the wedding was a time-management nightmare. And, of _course_ , one of the things that had gone wrong somehow had to do with Spencer forgetting to call the band that was supposed to be there in the _first_ place. Instead, Gus was going to be filling in on stage with the two other members of his trio, doing covers of popular songs. Yay.

Also, the seating had gotten so screwed up, they’d had to do away with the name cards. Guests were just going to have to seat themselves, like adults should be able to do anyway, Carlton thought to himself. Shawn was the one who’d insisted on the name cards in the first place.

And he’d just gotten more bad news.

“Whaddaya mean the chef isn’t here?!” Carlton fumed. “He told us he’d be here at six-thirty! It’s nearly seven!”

Juliet shrugged and said, “I just got a phone call from the caterer saying something about a late birthday party, and that he’d be here as soon as he could. The reception’s not until eight, Carlton. There’s plenty of time.”

“Time?! Time is the _one_ thing I don’t—where are you going with those flowers?”

The florist paused in his rush.

“I was told that they wanted them on the tables…”

The head detective groaned, and then snapped, “No. They go along the _walls_. We have the _pineapples_ on the tables! Along with the candles and the gold, _not_ yellow, napkins.” He paused and saw someone else passing by (also in a rush) carrying a large load of plain white string lights. “Where’re you taking those?”

The girl, who looked no more than eighteen, glanced over at the florist and his predicament and then gave the older man a hopeful smile and guessed, “Uh… _not_ to the reception area?”

He nodded.

“Exactly. It’s the _pineapple_ lights. The ones on the back of the truck.”

She nodded and scampered off.

Juliet gave him a look, arching an eyebrow and crossing her arms over her pale green silk dress that showed a generous amount of shoulder.

“Okay, don’t you think you’re being a _little_ harsh, Carlton?”

“No,” he curtly replied, pivoting on his heel and beginning to pace. She rolled her eyes at that and walked over to him and gently said, “Everything will be fine if you just stop worrying about the details that aren’t going to matter in the long run.” He stopped pacing and looked back at her.

Juliet smiled.

She stepped towards him and adjusted his tie as she gently reminded him, “You’re getting married today, Carlton. Enjoy it.”

His tension eased…and then McNabb showed up.

Twenty-five minutes later, they started the ceremony. It went off without a hitch.

Well, without a hitch might be exaggerating it a bit, but who cared. Sure, Gus was already crying in the first row, even though no one else was, and Carlton had to change into a black suit jacket instead of his white one that he’d wanted to wear because _some_ one (McNabb) had spilled champagne all over it, and Spencer senior had nearly knocked over Carlton’s mother while showing her to her seat…but yeah. Other than that, things were going well. Too well.

They now stood up at the front, and Lassiter swallowed, nervous, as Shawn began his vows. If anything was going to go embarrassingly wrong, it would be this.

“Lassi,” Shawn began, holding his fiancé’s hands, while the head detective tried not to roll his eyes, “If I had a nickel for every time I thought about you, people would be like, ‘What are you doing with all those nickels? That’s too many nickels.’ And they would be wrong. I mean, sometimes you’re a hot mess. Emphasis on the hot part. And the mess,” he added. “Not gonna lie, you’re kinda crazy sometimes, but I sort of love it anyway. Whenever you threaten to shoot me, it makes me smile because I know you care enough to waste a bullet on me.”

He paused, and Carlton bit his lip, wondering if the entire thing was going to be like this. From the corner of his eye, he saw Juliet suppressing a laugh and he couldn’t help but silently roll his eyes as Shawn started again.

“Sometimes when someone is talking, I almost immediately lose interest,” Spencer confessed. “That rarely happens with you, though. You’re always the exception to my rules.”

“What rules?” Lassiter couldn’t help but prod, and soon-to-be husband grinned and noted, “See? You get me, Lassi.”

He took a deep breath and carefully said, “I…I know I’m weird, but sometimes it makes you laugh, and that just makes me super happy.” He squeezed his hands. “I don’t _mind_ being alone, but I’d rather be with you, and for me that’s saying a _lot_!” Carlton nodded, and Shawn continued. “I mean, when I’m with you, there’s no such thing as a bad day. Okay, that’s not true,” the fake psychic amended. “I still have sucky days. Every time I’m away from you, my heart is like, ‘Well, this sucks.’ But, when you’re around, the days suck a lot less. Talking to you is my favorite part of the day. Aside from when I’m sleeping. And when I’m eating. Talking to you is my third favorite part of the day,” he finished, and Carlton was about ready to slap his hand over Shawn’s mouth, force the minister to marry them, and drag him to the reception. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.

But he didn’t. Instead, he let Shawn finish.

“To put it into words you can understand, I pretty much only feel comfortable when I’m around you. You’re like the sweatpants of my life.” The older man was certain he had a hole in his tongue at this point from biting down so hard. “I can’t get you out of my head, which is now becoming a problem because I have other things I need to be thinking about! I mean, I can’t imagine my life without you. And I have a very active imagination, so I should totally be able to do it! But I can’t.”

At this point, Carlton felt something inside of him warm to Shawn’s words. They were ridiculous, but they were honest and they were his, and Carlton wouldn’t have it any other way.

He finally finished with, “To be honest, the only thing I’m really afraid of is annoying you to the point where you don’t want to talk to me anymore. And I _really_ hope that never happens.”

God, now they were both tearing up, but Carlton kept his tears from falling, as did Shawn.

Gus sniffled loudly.

The minister turned to Lassiter, motioning for him to speak. He nodded, swallowed, and started.

“Spencer…Shawn,” he corrected himself. “I couldn’t stand you the first time I met you.” The younger man actually smiled broadly at that, as if proud of himself, and several people in the audience laughed. “You were a constant thorn in my side and I knew that I wouldn’t be getting rid of you anytime soon.” He paused and licked his lips. “But now, I’m glad that I didn’t get rid of you. Despite your faults, which are many,” he added, to more laughter and a shy shrug from Shawn, “You’ve made a difference in my life.”

He grasped Spencer’s fingers firmly in his own and gave him a soft look and said sincerely, “Thank you. Thank you for showing me that people aren’t just case numbers, and that love can happen more than once.”

At this point, he could plainly see several people openly crying, Juliet wiping at her eyes with black streaked tissues, and the detective had to swallow back his own tears that threatened to surface.

No. He would not cry.

“I’m…I’m not exactly good with words. So, I’ll just say this: *‘Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.’”

He paused, and then stuttered, “The…the words aren’t mine. But they’re the truth. Loving you has been madness. But…I hope that it always stays that way. A little bit crazy, but together. No matter what.”

Shawn’s eyes glistened and a single tear escaped. He pulled a hand back to reach up and quickly brush it away and replied, “Oh, look, I’m sweating from my eyes, how ‘bout that,” and a susurrus of laughter spread through the wedding party, breaking the tension, and Lassiter smiled and nodded, grasping Shawn’s hand once more.

He looked at the minister.

Everything after that, was a blur. They each repeated the words, exchanged rings, kissed, and then the next thing Carlton knew, they were at the wedding reception, which was outside with small pineapple lights strung up everywhere, with pineapples on each of the tables. Spencer had insisted, and Carlton didn’t really care, so pineapples decorated practically everything, but tastefully. The night had just fallen, giving everything a pale gold glow, just that side of reality.

What brought him out of his reverie, however, was the sound of Gus at the microphone.

“Hello, everyone. For the first dance of the two grooms, we will not be singing. This was chosen by the one and only Shawn Spencer, now Lassiter. Here’s to you two.”

Carlton groaned as Guster turned to the sound system and pressed play, fully expecting the Chicken Dance song or some atrocious eighties song to come out of the speakers…and felt slightly confused as he heard the opening chords of the song. It sounded instrumental, almost like soft rock. What was this?

The fake psychic gave him a sly look as he grabbed his hand and lead him to the floor.

Was it a trick?

He put one hand around Shawn’s waist, while his other one grabbed his hand…and then his breath caught in his throat as he heard the words.

_I’m a ne’er do well, runnin’ off black gold, it’s high time I pulled over and walked around a while. I’ve seen the porcelain shell, your exoskeleton, and I feel like we walk well together. Because in the end, we are friends and lovers…**_

Very gently, feeling slightly overwhelmed, he moved so that Shawn’s hand was on his waist, and his left hand cupped the younger man’s right shoulder. He lost himself to the song and that was when it hit him. They were married.

It was real.

It had happened.

They were _married._

And he was the happiest he’d ever been.

“Shawn,” he whispered into his ear.

“Yeah?” his new husband whispered back, his lips brushing against his neck.

His voice faltered slightly, and then he managed to murmur, “Why’d you pick me?”

Shawn’s fingers gently squeezed his waist and he replied, “There were a lot of reasons, Lassi…like, sometimes I get in a mood where I’m just like, ‘everything here bugs me’. And when that happens, you’re the only one I want to be around. That’s one reason. Another, is that you never put up with my crap.”

“True. Anything else?”

Spencer let out a soft sound that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“Well…you make me the best version of myself.”

Carlton held him a bit tighter at that point, pulling him closer, and Shawn leaned into it, both of them enjoying the closeness. They were quiet for a long time, until…

“So…why’d _you_ pick _me_?”

The head detective rolled his eyes and replied, “No idea,” and the psychic laughed and pulled back enough so that Carlton could see that his green eyes were shining. Yeah, he still wasn’t entirely sure why. The best and the worst all in one spastic, pineapple scented package.

He leaned back in and whispered in his ear, “When do you want to leave?” Carlton could feel him grin against his jaw, and Shawn replied, “After we drunkenly inhale some frosting, I think.”

Carlton snorted and said, “It’s called cutting the cake, Shawn,” and, just as he’d hoped, the younger man replied, “I’ve heard it both ways,” and he smiled. Yeah. He’d picked the right person to spend the rest of his life with.

Shawn Lassiter.

It had a nice ring to it.

* * *

**THE END**

***** Quote by Louis de Beneires

 ****** "Friends and Lovers" by Incubus (seriously, an astonishingly perfect song for these two!)

 


End file.
